In the Language of Miracles (24 page)

“Ready to go?”

Nagla nodded. The thought of attending the memorial service made her heart sink, her chest tighten.

“I really don't want to go,” she muttered.

Ehsan sighed. “I know. But, anyway,
weoa el bala wala entezaroh.
”

Nagla considered the old proverb. Was experiencing a misfortune really better than waiting for it, as her mother's words claimed? She doubted it. As much as she had agonized over the prospect of this service in the previous days, she feared that the coming hours would be more painful still.

Like running her hand over grass. That, too, evoked more pain than she had ever imagined it would. Before getting up, Nagla stroked the grass one more time, let the memory of Hosaam fill her, its heaviness so dense it defied tears and seemed to anchor her deeper into the soil. She would go to the service, of course; she had known she would for days, even as she tried to convince Samir to abandon his plans. She would go, because she knew Samir would be furious if she did not, and she was too cowardly to risk that. And because she knew he was setting himself up for humiliation, and, unfathomable as it may seem, she didn't want to let him face it alone. Again she remembered that layer of his voice that had struck her earlier today, a thread of what they once had that still clung to him. She knew his voice well, understood its tone better than any words he came up with. He needed her. She was not going to abandon him.

ENGLISH
: If your house is made of glass, do not throw stones at others.

ARABIC
: He whose house is made of glass should not throw stones at others.

G
et ready. We'll be leaving soon,” Samir said.

Khaled lifted himself from the bed and stared at his father, standing in the doorway.

“Where to?”

“The memorial service, of course,” Samir said.

“You want me to go?”

“Of course I do! I thought we had settled that.”

Khaled, hardly awake, tried to remember any conversation he might have had with his father on the subject. He could not.

“Just get ready, will you? And wear your suit and tie.” Samir stepped away.

“Wait!” Khaled jumped out of bed. His father walked back. “Does Fatima have to go?”

“Of course she does.”

 • • • 

In the bathroom, Khaled splashed his face with water, stared at his reflection. He should leave now, go somewhere and not come back until a
couple of days later. Hosaam's grip was suffocating him; even a year after his death, his brother was still controlling everything—not only his own family but also the entire town, which was preparing for a gathering that was the direct result of Hosaam's crime. Walking back into his room, Khaled was struck by his father's compliance with Hosaam. Samir had become Hosaam's henchman, Khaled felt, his representative on earth, the one making sure everyone fell into the roles the murder had preordained.

In his closet, he stared at his only suit, a dark gray woolen getup that was sure to suffocate him in the New Jersey heat. He knew why his father wanted him to wear a suit, yet he still felt a surge of anger against him for depriving him of this minor freedom to choose what he wanted to wear. He stood in place, unable to decide what to do, unable to concentrate. Then he realized he had not had his morning coffee yet.

The kitchen was deserted. Waiting for the coffee to brew, Khaled looked around, listening for his grandmother or his mother. He heard no one. His mother's seat on the deck was empty, the ashtray, as always, sprouting cigarette stubs. He glanced at the wall clock; it was a quarter to ten.

His coffee in hand, he walked back upstairs. Fatima's door was ajar. She was standing with her back to him, brushing her hair. The morning sun shone through the window, illuminating the strands that always escaped her unruly mass.

He knocked on the door. “Hey.”

Fatima turned around, smiled at him, but then, as if suddenly remembering something, frowned and turned away. “Hey,” she mumbled.

“May I come in?”

“Of course.”

He sat on her bed, sipping his coffee. She finished brushing her hair, then, with her usual dexterity, shaped it into a thick braid that she tossed behind her.

“Where is everybody?” he asked.

“Mama and
Setto
are at the cemetery.” Her voice was low.

Visiting Hosaam, as he knew they would. They, too, were still under his brother's spell. Fatima was, as well; on her dresser stood a picture of her with the entire family, and, next to it, one of Hosaam, similar to the one their mother still kept on the console by the front door. “I thought you wanted to go with them.”

“Mama wouldn't let me.”

“I thought
Setto
would make her.”

“
Setto
can't make anybody do anything.”

Khaled paused. “You'd know, I guess.”

She turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

“You've been spending so much time with her, lately. It's like you're always locked up together.” He set his coffee aside. He had not intended to challenge his sister, but seeing his brother's picture on her dresser had irritated him.

“At least I'm locked up inside. You act like you're locked out of the house. Half the time, you're not even here.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Look who's talking! I'm not the one who's spent this entire past year at Maraam's.”

“No, because you've spent it at Garrett's.” Her sarcasm, uncharacteristic, jarred him.

“No, I haven't.”

“Oh yeah? How about yesterday? And the day before?”

“But I wasn't—” He cut himself short. Of course. He was with Brittany.

“Most of the time you don't even show up until after nightfall. I mean, seriously. If your house is made of glass.” She walked over to her dresser, rummaged through one of the drawers, pulling out an oblong black-and-gray scarf that she draped around her neck. She was wearing a long, flowing black skirt and a gray short-sleeve T-shirt. Khaled watched her bend down to fasten the straps of her shoes. They used to
be each other's confidant, two siblings united against their oppressive older brother, their bond giving them immunity against their mother's favoritism. When they were children, they built fortresses out of bedsheets suspended over four dining room chairs, whispered, hidden from view. He used to pretend he was the knight and she the princess, and he would vow, his plastic sword drawn, to protect her from the evil invaders who never came, mostly because Hosaam was busy playing with Natalie. Later, Khaled would sometimes make a detour on his way home, stopping by her school just so they could walk home together. Even after she started high school, he felt she needed his protection. He had been there for her all those past years, and he had always felt she was grateful for that. Now her belligerence vexed him.

“I don't see how what I do on my own time is any of your business,” he said, sharper than he had intended.

She raised her eyebrows, put her hands on her hips. “But what
I
do with my grandmother is, somehow, your business?”

“That's different. I go out, and you do, too; you practically live at Maraam's. But when I'm at home, I don't act like
Setto
and I are one team and everyone else is excluded.”

“So now you're jealous?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what's your problem?”

“I don't have a problem. All I'm saying is that you can come talk to me anytime I'm home; it's not like I lock my door. You choose not to. So don't act like I haven't been here for you.”

“But you haven't! No one has!” she said, her eyes watering, her voice growing louder. “No one except
Setto
!”

“Well, guess what? You haven't exactly been here for me, either. I mean, jeez. Why are you angry with me all of a sudden? Why am I the bad guy?” They both glanced toward Hosaam's picture then away. They locked eyes, and Fatima narrowed hers.

“Don't go there,” she hissed.

“Go where?”

“Don't mention Hosaam. Don't you dare start blaming him for everything again.”

Khaled stared, his mouth gaping. “Are you freaking serious? You're defending him? So now I'm at fault but he's not?”

“I'm not defending him; I'm saying you don't have the right—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? With this whole family? Why—”

“Don't yell at me, Khaled! Don't you dare—”

“I'll do whatever the fuck I want! Why does everyone keep telling me what—”

“What is going on here?” Samir's voice boomed, and they both turned toward him. He was standing at the door. In the sudden hush, they could hear the front door close, Nagla's hurried footsteps on the stairs, followed by Ehsan's.

“What's going on? What kind of circus is this?” Samir asked again.

“We were just—” Fatima started.

“I don't want to hear about it. How come you're still in your pajamas?” he asked Khaled. “Go get dressed.”

Khaled stood in place, staring at his father.

“Now!” Samir said.

Khaled did not move.

“Didn't you hear what I said?
Enta ettarasht?
”

“I heard you,” Khaled answered in English. “But I'm not ready to go yet. Fatima and I are still talking.” His heart was pounding so forcefully he could hear his own heartbeat exploding against his eardrums.

“Enta etgannent ya walad? Ana olt terooh telbes!”

“I'm not ready to go change yet. I'll go when I'm ready.” Khaled's voice grew sharper, louder.

“Enta betoshkhot feyya?”
Samir's face flushed crimson.

Behind him, Nagla stood at the top of the stairs. “What's going on?”

“Your son has no manners, that's what's going on.”

“Don't yell at her!” Khaled said.

“Sallo ala elnaby ya naas,”
Ehsan's voice came. “This is not the way to do this. Calm down.”

“I'm not yelling at her,” Samir yelled.
“Enta mal ommak aslan?”

“It
is
my business,” Khaled answered.

Nagla squeezed past her husband and inside the room. Her mother took her place, glancing in but not daring to get any closer. Next to Khaled, Fatima stood in the corner, her arms crossed, silent.

“What's going on, Khaled?” Nagla asked. “What's wrong, Fatima?”

“Khaled and I were just talking, and it got a bit—”

“We were talking and he just barged in yelling at us,” Khaled said.

“Stop this insolence, now!” Samir pointed his finger at Khaled. “This is not the time for your ill-breeding and stubbornness.”

“
My
stubbornness?”

“Khaled, just—” Nagla started.

“Calm down, Khaled,” Fatima whispered, coming closer and holding him by the arm. He jerked his arm free of her grasp. Samir slowly walked into the room. Outside the door, Ehsan started murmuring prayers.

“We will talk about this later,” Samir said, his teeth clenched. “Trust me, we will. Now you will go change. You will be on your best behavior until after this thing is over. I will not have you disgrace me in front of all those people today.”

“Have
me
disgrace
you
? Are you fucking kidding me?” Khaled screamed. His father closed in on him, and he, standing in place, watched him approach, feeling that every step Samir took deprived him of another chunk of air until his father's proximity suffocated him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Khaled spoke directly into his father's eyes.

Nagla put an arm between her son and her husband, pulling Khaled away. “Khaled, don't—”

“Don't what? Why is everyone mad at me all of a sudden? When did I become the bad guy?”

“No one said—” Nagla started.

“I will not have you talking that way!” Samir stamped, his foot hitting the floor so forcefully the frames on Fatima's dresser shook. “I will not have you—”

“You have no right to have me do anything! You know what?” Khaled wriggled away from his mother's grasp, got closer to his father. “You know what?” he repeated. He stood with his nose inches from his father's face, towering over Samir.

“Etlamm ya walad!”
Samir's arms stretched taut by his side, the blood rushing to his face.

Khaled stood in place, panting. The unfairness, the injustice of his father's attitude, of his entire life this past year, engulfed him in a rage he had never felt before. He was angry with Hosaam, with his father, with his mother, with
Setto,
with Fatima. He was furious with himself for letting them control him. They had no right to judge him, to pour onto him the frustration that his brother's crime had filled them with. Wasn't it bad enough they offered no support? Wasn't it bad enough his entire family was another source of stress rather than of comfort? Wasn't it bad enough he had to be all alone for this entire past year? For longer?

He had always been alone. Perhaps he would always be alone.

Khaled stepped back. Talking was useless. He walked around his father and out of the room.

“Where do you think you're going?” Samir followed him.

Khaled stepped into his own room, slammed the door behind him before his father could make it there, and locked it.

“Eftah elbab ya walad!”
Samir's voice boomed through the closed door as he tried to get in, alternating banging on the door with wrestling with the knob. Khaled stood inside, glaring at the closed door.

Nagla's voice came through the door, strangely quiet. “Just let him be for now, Samir.”

“Baba—”
Fatima started.

“I won't let him be! You stay out of this, Nagla!”

Khaled put his hands on his ears, shutting out their voices. He walked around his room in circles. There was no place to go. He walked into his closet, looked around, and then walked back out. He walked from his bed to his desk and then to the door. He walked to the window, looked out. There was no way he could climb out of there, no conveniently placed tree whose branches he could scale. He walked to the door and let his arms fall. Outside, his parents were arguing, Fatima occasionally interjecting, while Ehsan's prayers continued in the background.

“You will come out and talk to me right now!” Samir demanded.

“No, I will not!”

“I don't have time for your nonsense. We have to leave in less than an hour.”

“I'm not coming,” Khaled heard himself say.

“What?” Khaled could picture his father's mouth gape. Nagla whispered something, to which Samir replied, “You stay quiet.”

“I'm not coming,” Khaled repeated. “You can't make me.”

“Yes, I can!”

“Try.”

Khaled waited. Outside, the voices of the individual members of his family blended together in a mishmash of Arabic that he could not understand, peppered with Fatima's occasional English words. The voices rose and fell, their words mingling, and he, his body tingling with anticipation, stood transfixed. His door shook with each of his father's blows, but it did not give way. He waited, first trying to decipher the sounds he heard, and then, once his breath had grown steady again, covering his ears with his hands. He walked back and sat on his bed, his eyes still fixed on the door, its occasional flutters growing farther apart until the door finally stood still.