Hospitals have a stench in the air:
Desperation. Avoidance. Resignation.
I think of what my mom says when she comes home after dealing with grieving families: we live in a death-denying society. Nobody wants to suffer through the inevitable down. We only want to enjoy the up, up, up.
Growing up with a mom like mine, who wanted me to face the inevitable—because she believed it was necessary, because she believed I would be stronger for it—means I eventually developed a matter-of-fact attitude toward death, too. Healthy, Mom calls it.
Only weeks after we arrived in Providence, we lost our dog Kisser. She was part Great Pyrenees, part golden retriever, and part mutt: gigantic and human-sized, with the sweetest temperament imaginable. I’d come home from school, and she’d be waiting by the front door. She’d happily run in a circle around me, and we’d roll around on the floor in the foyer. After dinner, she’d jump on the couch next to me and snuggle into the curve of my hip, draping her fluffy body onto mine as if she were nine pounds instead of ninety.
She was seven years old, so the end was sudden and unexpected—like most endings are, I guess. Mom took her to the dog groomer before a visit from Teta, and they accidentally gave her a treat her system couldn’t handle, though Mom specifically told them not to feed her.
We visited her at the dog hospital. I stroked her soft white fur and nuzzled her black nose, whispering into her ear, “It’s going to be all right, Kisser. You’re going to be okay. I’m here with you. Allie is here.”
Kisser whimpered a little, and I was excited, because I knew that meant she’d understood me, but the vet told me not to get my hopes up. I longed to tell him to get out.
She died the next morning, and I cried for two weeks.
When Grandmother told Mom we should sue, because the groomer’s negligence had killed Kisser, Mom told her it was unthinkable. Death was a fact of life, and whether it had been now or five years from now, there was nothing in heaven or on earth that would prevent the end.
Grandmother hated Mom’s attitude toward death. I found it weirdly comforting.
If you know the worst thing in the world—the thing you fear more than anything else—is an inevitability, is definitely going to happen, doesn’t that free you from worry? All the worrying is self-indulgence. It’s going to happen. Focus on what you can control instead.
That’s how I see it anyway.
Except, now that we’re in the hospital and it’s my grandmother on the bed and my father crying by her side, it’s harder for me to be brave. I don’t want my grandmother to die. I want her to get better, and I want my father to be happy, and I want my grandmother to hear me speak Arabic. I want her to tell me in Arabic that I made her proud.
I want her to live.
* * *
Fairouza and I leave the hospital room to give my dad privacy with Teta.
If I see him cry one more time, it’ll break me.
The stench of cleaning products rises up as I walk down the hallway, and a wave of nausea passes over me.
My extended family packs the waiting room, subdividing into groups: The younger cousins are by the fridge and the stocked selection of Top Ramen. The older cousins are in a corner by the window, making a protective circle around the toddlers and children. Teta’s children, my aunts and uncles, are in the middle of the room, alternatively pacing and laughing and yelling and weeping.
Every hour, another Ibrahimi family member arrives.
Two families wait alongside ours, one looking and sounding as white, Texan, and Christian as they come. They stare our way each time another family member arrives, everybody standing and crowding around them, waiting their turn for hugs and kisses. I squint, trying to see them through these strangers’ eyes. Some of my relatives wear headscarves, and my Egyptian cousin Saif has a long, well-tended beard he’s exceptionally proud of, and which occasionally alarms people. (Never mind he’s a teddy bear, loves beer, and is covered in—haram!—tattoos.)
When my uncle Sammy arrives, it’s with two dozen doughnuts in tow. Since he’s traveling during Ramadan, clearly he’s taking up the loophole of avoiding the fast. He puts them on a table by the coffee machine and, with a smile, waves the other families in the waiting room over. “Hey! You want some?”
The families look startled.
“Yeah, you!” Uncle Sammy says, pointing at them with stubby nicotine-stained fingers. “Come! Eat! I got extra.”
They stand up, looking wary but creeping over to the table. Within five minutes, several of them are laughing at Uncle Sammy’s jokes and trying to one-up one another with tales of oppressive traffic jams, debating whether New Jersey or Atlanta is worse.
I sit next to Houri in the corner with the kids.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Rough. You?”
“I’m okay. It’s hard seeing my dad. His reaction is…”
Houri nods her chin in the direction of the aunts and uncles. My father is now sitting next to Aunt Bila, looking worn-out. “She’s going to be okay. I know it.”
“Inshallah,” I say. “She seemed fine a few months ago. I don’t understand it.”
“Allah has a plan for us all.”
“I didn’t even have a chance to show her I’ve learned Arabic.”
“It’s not too late,” Houri says. “Inshallah, you’ll be able to speak to her.”
“Inshallah.”
We sit in silence.
“How much Arabic can you speak now?” Houri asks.
“A bit. It’s been a couple months.”
She laughs. “I took four years of high school Spanish, and the only words I remember are hola and agua.”
“I can read and write it now,” I say shyly.
“Arabic?” Her face is incredulous. “You can read it?”
Her reaction surprises me.
“Can’t you?”
“No! Mama and Baba never taught me. They feel guilty about it. I think Fairouza might know, but that’s ’cause she insisted on going to Sunday school.”
“My teacher says I’m learning really fast.”
“Do you understand me?” she asks in Arabic.
“Yes,” I reply in Arabic. “Ask me again, more.”
She quizzes me, rapid-fire.
“How old are you?”
“I am sixteen.”
“Where do you live?”
“I live in Providence, Georgia. Near Atlanta.”
“What are your mother’s and father’s names?”
“My mother is named Elizabeth, and my father is named Muhammad.” I stumble over the words slightly.
“Are you still dating that boy? With the bad father?”
I blush. “Yes.”
“You do understand me!” She’s switched back to English. “Okay, now write my name.” She rummages in her purse until she finds a pen. She grabs a magazine from the nearby table and flips it over until she finds a legible surface.
“Ha … waw … ra … ya … tā’marbūṭta…” I say each of the letters as I write down her name. “Houriya.”
She squints at the page, looking doubtful. “That’s it?”
I shrug. “It might be wrong. Sometimes the letters trip me up.”
“Color me impressed. Hey, Yusuf, ta’al!” Houri calls over a nearby cousin. “Quiz Allie on her Arabic!”
Soon, a few different cousins are testing me.
“Say ‘yellow’ in Arabic!” Yusuf says.
“What’s your favorite…?” Amir says something I don’t understand.
“My favorite what?” I ask in Arabic.
“Ice-cream flavor,” he says in English.
I switch back to Arabic. “Chocolate.”
And so on.
It gets stir-crazy in a hospital waiting room, so this game keeps my family going for way longer than it should.
My cousin Amal sits next to her husband, Sulaiman. “I need a drink,” she mutters into his ear, probably thinking I can’t hear her.
“Tw
o more weeks,” he mutters back.
Through it all, Dad says nothing. He’s never heard me speak Arabic before. I want him to look impressed, to look disgusted, to look like something, but his face remains blank, impassive. Every so often, he returns to the coffee machine near the refrigerator for a refill.
“He’s on his twentieth cup of coffee,” I say to Rashid.
“Literally?”
“Not literally. He drinks coffee when he’s stressed.”
“He has a pretty good excuse,” Rashid says, giving me a rueful smile.
“I guess so.” I stare at my dad from across the room, watching as my mom walks up to him and puts her arms around him. He buries his head in her shoulder. They look like a young couple from the back.
When Dad raises his face, Mom cups it in her hands and murmurs something to him.
If I have a relationship half as good as theirs, I’ll be the luckiest girl in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After an endless, exhausting day at the hospital, it’s time for everybody to pile in the available cars and take the ten-minute drive to Aunt Bila’s house.
The family has decided to take turns sleeping by Teta’s bedside. Tonight was supposed to be Fairouza’s turn, but my dad volunteered.
He’s been quiet all day. It’s hard to believe it was only this morning I was with Wells at the baseball game.
I return to the hospital room before we leave, leaning over the bed to give Teta a kiss. Her skin is cold against my lips. I’m suddenly struck with the terrible knowledge that this might be the last time I see her.
“My heart, I love you, Teta,” I say in Arabic.
“I didn’t know you were learning.”
I startle at Dad’s quiet voice behind me.
“I started after she visited us.”
“Your accent is good.”
“Thanks. I’m trying.”
He looks back over at Teta. It seems as if he’s struggling to hold back tears. “She would be proud of you. She thought you should know Arabic. She was irritated with me. She said I was denying you your birthright.”
I hold my breath, taking a chance. “Only the language? Or was she angry about the religion, too?”
His mouth tightens. “Your mother and I wanted you to make your own decisions. I didn’t want you to be burdened by something that didn’t make sense to you.”
“The way you were burdened.”
His silence is pained.
“I’ve made my decision, Dad. I like praying. I like being a Muslim. I choose Islam.”
“She would be proud of you,” he repeats, standing up to come over and give me a hug.
I wait, hoping he will say, “And so am I.”
He doesn’t.
* * *
Back at Aunt Bila’s house, the family comes together over food for the iftar. Amir helps Aunt Bila serve everybody drinks, returning back and forth to the kitchen several times with Sprite, Coke, ice, and glasses, while Rashid plops Lulu onto his lap to share food off his plate.
All of the family living in Dallas stops by, most with their own platters of homemade Arabic and Circassian meats and breads and sweets.
After dinner, Fairouza stands up from the table and says, “Yalla. I’m going to pray.” She looks right at me. “You wanna come?”
“Sure.” I’m taken aback by the callout.
“You pray?” Amal asks, looking surprised.
“I started this year,” I mumble.
“Nice.”
Fairouza reaches out and grabs my hand. “Hamdullah. God will bless you a thousand times, Allie.”
It’s embarrassing but sweet to hear.
“Anybody else?” Fairouza looks around the room.
Amir, Yusuf, Rashid, Uncle Sammy, Reem, Aunt Ray, and Aunt Bila stand up, making noises of assent and following Fairouza. Everybody performs wudu quickly in the various bathrooms, and then the group goes into the formal living room near the front door, where Aunt Bila keeps the prayer rugs and flowing white abayas.
The Qibla is oriented toward the den, where the rest of my family sits sipping tea. I put my hands up near my ears, setting my intention.
Please, God, let Teta live.
And as I bend down, another prayer pops into my head:
Please, God, let Dad understand.
* * *
We stagger into the hospital waiting room the next morning in waves: one branch of the family after another. Mom and I drive in with Aunt Bila and Fairouza, who spent the night at her mother’s house. Houri texts me to say she’ll be there in the afternoon; Lulu didn’t sleep well.
Once there, my mom beelines for the hospital room to see Dad. A few minutes later, he walks into the waiting area without her, looking exhausted. Bags weigh down his eyes, and his shirt is rumpled, a shadow creeping across his chin and cheeks. He excuses himself to go down to the gift shop and buy toothpaste.
A couple hours after we take up the day’s vigil, Aunt Samiha, Uncle Omar, and Khalila finally arrive from London and from Jeddah. The family greets them as if they are returning from years away at war.
“Mashallah, Allie, you look beautiful, ya rouhi,” Aunt Samiha says in her husky smoker’s voice.
“Shukran, Amto. How was your flight?”
“Good, but, mashallah, your accent! Have you learned Arabic?”
Next, my cousin Ishan arrives with his wife, Leslie, and their four children in tow. Leslie is pregnant again, her belly ripe and swollen.
Sometime in the afternoon, when we’ve all been there for hours, the doctor enters the waiting room. My father immediately stands to attention. I exchange nervous glances with Mom.
“Mo, I’d like to talk to you,” the doctor says, and my heart sinks.
Mom immediately walks over to Dad, entwining her fingers through his.
“Can I come…?” I ask.
My dad nods.
I trail them down the hallway, looking behind me to see if any other family members are following. It’s just us.
The doctor closes the door to his office.
“We have run a battery of tests,” he says. “Because she was treated soon after the heart attack, and within minutes of cardiac arrest, it appears there was minimal damage. We feel likely we should be able to slowly bring her out of the coma today.”
Mom and Dad clasp each other’s hands.
“So … it’s good news.” Dad’s face is hopeful but cautious.
“It’s early,” the doctor says, “and of course we will need to monitor her closely over the next several days, but all signs point to good news.”
Why are doctors like this? Why can’t they just say, Yes, it’s good news, instead of a fifty-word don’t-sue-me speech?
“Thank God,” Mom says. “This is the best news.”
“I’ll go tell everybody.” Dad stands up, and his cheeks are wet, but his face is happy. He puts his hand on Mom’s shoulder, patting it, before leaning down to give me a kiss on the head.
* * *
The monitor beeps steadily. Teta lies in bed. She’s been awake for a couple of hours, and the doctor is starting to permit visitors.
I enter the room tentatively, feeling out of place. Am I allowed to be here?
Teta hears my footsteps and turns her head a couple inches.
“Ya Alia.” Her voice is raw and scratchy. No wonder: She’s had a tube jammed down it.
“Ya Teta, ya habibti.”
I sit next to her, taking her hand in mine. It’s warmer than it was yesterday. Blood pumping. Good sign.
I take a deep breath, launching into my Arabic.
“How are you feeling?” I say.
“God knows, I’m tired. I’m alive, thank God.”
“I’m happy you are healthy. We have been here two days.”
Suddenly, Teta’s face registers surprise. “You’re speaking Arabic!”
“Yes! I am learning. A surprise.”
“Thank God!”
“I am speaking good?” I�
�m aware my Arabic is incredibly stilted, and it’s entirely possible what I mean to say isn’t what I’m actually saying.
She laughs but then immediately launches into a coughing fit. Her face sobers, but she says, “Good. I’m proud.”
My eyes fill with tears. This is the first time we’ve had a real conversation—ever.
“Are you praying?” she says.
I flush. “Sometimes. I try, but…” I clear my throat. “I am learning. I know I am not good yet. But I learn and I learn and I learn.”
“Nobody’s perfect, my love,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m proud of you.”
I burst into tears, wanting to launch myself at her for a hug but not wanting to hurt her. I settle for squeezing her hand back.
She lets go, putting her palm on my cheek and pressing gently, as if she’s transmitting energy from her soul to mine. “Ya, Alia. I love you. You are my whole heart.”
* * *
With Teta on the mend, the nightly gathering at Aunt Bila’s house takes on a relaxed, festive atmosphere. Houri and Reem spent the morning rolling grape leaves and placing them in the pressure cooker, and Aunt Ray made her famous hummus and foul. I chip in by making a tabouleh salad before setting the table, Rashid and Amir helping.
“When do you fly back?” Aunt Bila asks us.
“Tomorrow night,” my dad says. “We’ll spend the day at the hospital with Mama, and then our flight is late. We’ll get home after midnight.”
“Yalla, stay one more week, ya habibti!” Aunt Ray says. “Why are you racing away so soon?”
“Elizabeth and I have work,” Dad says.
“What? Why? C’mon, don’t rush back!” Uncle Sammy says. “At least keep Allie here. She’s done with school. Ya’ni, have her stay for a few weeks.”
“A few weeks?” I say before I can stop myself. I exchange a panicked look with my mother. Way too long.
“Allie has summer school,” my mother explains. “And she’s finally beginning a driver’s ed course next weekend.”
I sigh.
“School in the summer? I thought you were doing well?” Aunt Ray asks.
“She is,” Dad says. “She’s taking advanced courses in computer science at the community college so she’ll have even more of a leg up for next year and an advantage with her AP tests and college applications. When she eventually starts university, it will be as a sophomore, because of all the extra work she’s doing.” He looks over at me proudly.
All-American Muslim Girl Page 28
