“Hamdulilah,” Fatima says.
“Are you still gonna do cooking classes over the summer, or are you pressing ‘pause’ until Ramadan’s over?” Shamsah asks Fatima.
“I’m sticking with them this year,” Fatima says. “I was on the wait list for this Classical European Cuisines course and I actually got in, so I’m putting on my big-girl shoes—or chef’s hat, I guess. Plus, I figure, is it really that different than not eating while cooking iftar?”
Dua nods. “Good point. Although I stay away from the kitchen until the last possible second. Like, don’t even let me see food until after eight p.m. this year.”
“I barely remember my first Ramadan,” Leila says.
“How old were you?” I ask.
She ponders the question. “I started half fasting when I was really young. Six or seven? The first time I fasted for real, I was in fifth grade, I think. I must have been ten.”
“You fasted when you were ten?” I look at Leila in horror.
“You get used to it,” she says, shrugging as she scoops another bite of peach pie into her mouth.
“The first two or three days are the hardest.” Fatima nods in agreement. “But it gets easier somehow.”
I chew on my cuticles dubiously. “I don’t know.”
“You can do it,” Leila says. “You just need to think about why. Focus on Allah. Remember all the people around the world suffering.”
“Or focus on your family and how ashamed they’ll be if you break the fast, and how it’s not worth the guilt and complaining.” Shamsah laughs. “That totally works, too.”
I must look aghast, because everybody bursts out laughing.
Fatima reaches over and pats my hand sympathetically. “We’ll be here with you.”
“You’ll be fine,” Dua says, handing me a cupcake. “Quick, eat this while you can.”
I plaster a smile on my face as the girls giggle. But inside I’m thinking: Crap, crap, crap. There’s no way I’m making it through this.
* * *
The headache starts in the middle of my skull, as if threatening to rip me in two.
I read that some countries, like the United Arab Emirates, consider eating in public during Ramadan a crime—even by Westerners. At the time, I thought it was excessive. Now, I understand. It’s a necessary kindness for the greater good.
At least Ramadan started over the weekend, after the school year ended. The musical and final exams feel like a lifetime ago. The only thing that matters now: surviving Ramadan.
I’ve been fasting for hours now. Hours. It feels like I’m never going to eat again. But when I look at the clock, I see that it’s only three. Not even time for Asr prayer yet, and hours until sunset.
I text Dua:
HELP. This is so hard.
She writes back:
Ha! Supposed to be hard. Makes it worth it. Think of God. Think of the less fortunate. Think of how good that food is going to taste later … wait, don’t think about that.
You can do it! One day (almost) done, only twenty-nine more to go …
Houri texts me to check in, too. I respond:
I’m tired, thirsty, and hot. Go away.
She responds:
I’m going to chalk that up to Ramadan brain.
While lying in bed searching online, I find out there are places in the world where fasting lasts as long as twenty-one hours. I also find a verse saying God doesn’t want you to suffer during Ramadan.
Well, if God didn’t want you to suffer, he wouldn’t ask you to fast.
Not being able to drink water is a special kind of torture: You can’t take a sip if your lips are dry. You can’t shotgun a LaCroix to put bubbles in your tum and fill you up. You can’t even chew gum.
I want to take an Aleve to help with my headache, but then I remember that would require water, too, and I swear I almost burst into tears.
I pull my bullet journal out of my bedside drawer, but I can’t motivate myself to write.
Finally, I turn a page and scrawl two words.
Fasting.
Help.
* * *
Day two.
They’ve lied.
They’ve all lied.
It doesn’t get easier.
I miss food.
* * *
Getting through the day without snapping at everybody kind of sucks.
Doing my Arabic homework without thinking about food is the worst.
At least now that it’s summer I don’t have to worry about actual school, although computer camp has started, and I’m supposed to take my driving exam before school starts again.
And then I have to go home after camp and be a functional human with my parents, making an extra effort to be nice so I can repair our fractured relationship, while all I want to do is stuff my face and eat.
Instead, I think about God, reciting my favorite dhikr remembrance—a short little prayer—to snap me back into place, focus my intention, and remind me what I’m doing this for.
Subhanallah wal hamdulillah, wa la ilaha illa Allah wa Allahu Akbar.
I check in with myself. Did it work?
Nope.
This is torture.
* * *
Here’s the truth. You do get used to being without food.
I’m a week into it, and I’m doing it.
I’m surviving.
I’m thriving!
Okay, let’s not go that far.
* * *
One night, Shamsah texts me while I’m holed up in my room, sprawled across my bed reading, with the door closed. I think I hear my parents downstairs watching a movie, but I’m not sure.
SHAMSAH: How you holding up?
ME: Doing better. I barely notice anymore. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I’m making it through.
SHAMSAH: Ha ha. It’s hard in the beginning. You’re rocking it.
SHAMSAH: So, listen, I just wanted to fill you in …
SHAMSAH: I told my mom
ME:!!!!
ME: OMG!
ME: How’d it go?
SHAMSAH: It was … dramatic.
SHAMSAH: Lots of tears. Hers and mine
ME: And? Was it as bad as you’d feared?
SHAMSAH: I mean, yeah. It was the scariest thing ever. But she’s strong. She handled it. She told me she loves me.
ME: That’s amazing. I’m so, so, so happy for you
SHAMSAH: I made her promise not to tell my dad. We’ll cross that bridge later.
SHAMSAH: Jamila is so excited
ME:
SHAMSAH: I’m going to tell the girls soon. I think. Maybe. We’ll see
ME: Thank you so much for sharing with me, Sham
SHAMSAH: How are things with you and Wells?
ME: Erm. Complicated. We’re trying halal dating.
SHAMSAH: What on earth is halal dating?
ME: I don’t even know
* * *
Mom and Dad have stayed true to their word. Mom orders takeout most nights, to keep the house from filling with the scent of chopped onions and sizzling garlic, and the two of them eat furtively—in their office, in the bedroom, outside on the patio. When I catch Mom eating a slice of pizza in the basement with a book on her lap and a rerun of her favorite show on the small TV, I tell her it’s gone far enough.
“Mom, you can’t live like a fugitive!”
“Sorry,” she says, swallowing her pepperoni and wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I feel guilty.”
“Well, you should,” I tell her, laughing. “How dare you eat in your own home at the regular prescribed mealtimes?”
“How many days left?” she asks.
“Twenty.”
She groans.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wells and I are at a morning Atlanta Braves game when I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.
It’s my dad.
“Hi,” I say in a cool tone, putting a finger in my other ear so I can hear him above the din of the crowd. On the fi
eld, one of the players from the Cubs hits a home run, the stadium erupting into boos.
“You need to get home right now,” Dad says.
“Wait, what? What’s going on?” I huddle down into my seat, straining to hear.
Next to me, Wells pauses mid–hot dog bite, looking concerned. A dollop of mustard falls onto his jeans. I had to tell him three times it was okay for him to (1) eat a hot dog and (2) do it in front of me.
“Teta had a heart attack and went into cardiac arrest. We leave for Dallas ASAP.”
“What?” I repeat, shocked.
“Can you meet us directly at the airport? There’s not enough time for you to come home first. Your mom is packing your clothes now.”
“Yeah…” I look over at Wells, wide-eyed.
“Okay, we’ll meet you in an hour by the check-in counter. Make sure Wells stays with you. Love you.” It’s the first time he’s told me he loves me in weeks.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, in shock.
“Everything okay?” Wells asks, putting his hot dog on top of his messenger bag.
I look back and forth between him and the phone, trying to process what my father said. It takes me few seconds to gather my voice. I grab his Coke and take a sip without thinking, composing myself.
“My grandmother had a heart attack.” The floodgates open. I collapse on his shoulder, sobbing.
Wells draws me into his arms. “What can I do?”
“Would you mind giving me a ride to the airport?” I sniffle. “We fly to Dallas this afternoon.”
“Let’s go.”
“I hate making you miss the game. It’s the second inning.”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s just a stupid game.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in the car, Wells racing toward Hartsfield-Jackson while I call Houri on my cell phone. She answers on the first ring.
“How is she?” I ask without bothering to say hi.
“Not good,” Houri says. Her voice is low.
“Why are you whispering?”
“We’re at the hospital. Baba is in with the doctors now.”
“Who’s there?”
Houri rattles off a list of names, including several aunts, uncles, and cousins who live in Dallas. “Aunt Samiha is on her way to the airport right now. She’s meeting Uncle Omar and Khalila in London, and they’re flying over together. They should be here tomorrow morning.”
I frown. “They should?” Aunt Samiha lives in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. If she’s flying all the way from Saudi, it’s not good news.
“Khalila said Amto was hysterical. She feels guilty enough living so far away. She’s praying Teta will wake up.”
“Khalila’s coming from London, too?”
“They’re all coming. Khalila and the kids. Uncle Sammy is flying in from New Jersey with the family. Aisha is already on the way from Cairo. Everybody.”
The last time the entire family was together was for my jido’s funeral. I’m elated by the prospect of seeing my whole family, but horrified by the circumstances.
By the time I hang up with Houri, we’re halfway to the airport.
“Sorry. I know I’ve been on the phone the entire time.”
“Don’t apologize,” Wells says. “It’s your grandma. I get it.”
“Are you close with yours?”
“I was with my dad’s mom … but she passed away. My mom’s mom still lives in Canada, so we never see her and my grandfather.”
“You guys don’t visit?”
“Not really. I guess it’s too far. Gotta fly cross-country, take a ferry, and spend a weekend dealing with my grandparents’ passive-aggressive nonsense. They’re not close with my mom. You know how it is.”
I nod but don’t tell him about my family, where we gather together at least once a year—where even my cousins in Cairo and Jeddah and London are just a WhatsApp message away.
“Does she know you’ve been learning Arabic?” he asks me.
“I wanted to surprise her.” My voice breaks again. I look down at my hands, concentrating on my nails as I try to steady myself. “I should have told her sooner.”
“She’ll be all right. I know she will. Don’t worry.”
I open and shut my mouth several times, self-censoring. Finally, I say quietly, “Thank you. I hope so.”
I appreciate Wells’s optimism, but I just don’t feel the same.
* * *
“You’re here!” Aunt Bila starts crying the second my father, mother, and I walk into the hospital waiting room, launching herself into my father’s arms. She explodes into rapid-fire Arabic. It takes me a second to decipher any of it, because she’s talking so quickly, but I recognize words and realize she’s telling my father about Teta’s condition.
“She’s in a coma,” I mutter to my mom, relaying the information in a low voice. “It happened in the car with Aunt Bila, thank God. So she was able to get her to the hospital in minutes.”
“My God,” Mom says, moving toward Aunt Bila and engulfing her in a hug. “How are you, Bila?”
My aunt sobs in response.
“You made it,” says her grandson Zeid, coming over and giving us kisses on each cheek. He pats my father’s shoulder dolefully. “Hamdullah, I hope the flight was good.”
“As good as can be expected,” my dad says, looking somber.
Mom sat in between us on the flight, with Dad by the window, staring out at the clouds below for most of the two-hour journey.
I desperately wanted to say something to Dad—anything to make him feel better—but I didn’t know what. He hates platitudes, and the best words of comfort I have are from the Qur’an. Right now, I want to make him feel better, not worse.
Now, the rest of our family swarms around us, everybody hugging and double-cheek kissing and saying prayers of thanks we’ve arrived safely. In the corner, Rashid patiently gives Lulu a time-out while the toddler wails and smacks the air, saying, “No, Daddy! Away! Go away!” He sees me and attempts a smile, looking exhausted. Houri’s brother Amir moves over to them, kneeling down and saying something to help calm the toddler, who magically stops crying and nods solemnly. Her uncle takes her tiny hand, and Rashid looks at his brother-in-law gratefully.
Dad leads Aunt Bila toward the hallway. “Can I see her?” he asks in Arabic.
“The nurses were in there changing her, but they should be done. Go.”
“I will come with you,” I say. My dad and aunt look at me, startled. It takes me a second to realize I’ve said it in Arabic. I switch to English. “I want to come see her. Please? If it’s okay.”
That was bizarre.
Dad nods briskly. “Okay,” he says.
I catch my mom’s eye, and she nods, as if to say, Go. She moves into the corner with the rest of the family, settling into a hospital chair for the long night ahead, as cousins chatter and swirl around her.
* * *
Teta lies in bed, fragile. Her pale skin is translucent, paper-thin, blue veins visible beneath the skin.
Fairouza sits next to her, eyes closed. With her right hand, she rubs Teta’s arm; with the other hand, she holds the Qur’an. I’ve seen the same ritual before: in the hospital for Jido, on his deathbed.
She’s reciting a dua seven times, over and over, praying for my teta to get better:
“I ask Almighty Allah, Lord of the Magnificent Throne, to make you well.”
My dad clears his throat. Fairouza opens her eyes. She continues to quietly recite the prayer, her lips moving. Only after she’s done does she squeeze my teta’s hand before resting it gently back onto the mattress and placing the Qur’an under her pillow.
Fairouza and my father hug, exchanging words in Arabic. I can’t tear my eyes away from my grandmother.
Gone is the fierce, proud Teta I’ve always known. She looks ancient, frail. She has a tube jammed down her throat, wires threading out from her arm, little rivulets of red running through the wires, a monitor next to the be
d steadily beep, beep, beep-ing.
I turn to my dad to gauge his reaction. In that moment, my heart breaks.
His face is crumpled, tears streaming down his cheeks.
My father has never been good with death.
When Jido died, everybody said my dad took it the hardest. He withdrew into a deep depression, losing weight, sleeping when he wasn’t at the university or writing.
Dad takes a step toward Teta, leaning over and kissing her on the forehead. “I’m here, Mama,” he says in Arabic. “It’s Muhammad.” He sits down next to her, taking her hand and enclosing it between his. “I’m here,” he repeats, his voice faltering.
“She’s comfortable, Khaalo Muhammad.” As she speaks in English, Fairouza bustles around Teta, fluffing her pillow and smoothing her blankets, though they look plenty fluffed and smoothed. “The nurses say she’s resting comfortably. They induced the coma for her safety. She’s not in pain right now.”
“Let’s hope, God willing.” My dad clears his throat again several times.
“The doctors were in here earlier with Baba. You should probably go talk to them about the plan of care.”
My dad juts his chin into the air, a single, dismissive thrust. “They can discuss among themselves. I trust them. I’ll stay here with her.”
“When I was praying for her earlier, wallahi she squeezed my hand,” Fairouza says. “I swear to you! On my life! She squeezed my hand, and I think she smiled. She’s going to wake up, Khaalo, I know it.”
I expect my dad to roll his eyes, or maybe say something kind, hiding his true feelings. Instead, he says, “What were you reciting?”
“I can repeat it, if you like.” Sweet Fairouza, always trying to make everybody happy, putting her own needs last, never getting the credit she deserves.
Once again, I expect nothing from Dad, and once again, he surprises me.
“Yes. Please.”
Fairouza gently reaches under the pillow, slides the Qur’an out from under Teta’s head, and quietly recites.
* * *
All-American Muslim Girl Page 27
