Rebels by Accident (15 page)

He takes the juices.

“Didn't you need to order something?” I remind him.

“For some reason, I'm not hungry anymore.” He smiles, and we walk back toward the rink.

Right before we make it out of the food court, someone shouts Muhammad's name. We both turn. It's Hassan and his blue-hijab girl.

“Mariam,” he says, “I didn't realize it was you. What a nice surprise. Where is Deanna?” I look over at the bench by the ice, and she's not there. All I can imagine is Deanna crying her eyes out in the restroom, and without thinking, I grab one of the plastic cups from Muhammad's hand and throw the juice in Hassan's face.

Well, at least that's what I would have done had it not been wrapped so tightly in cellophane that nothing spilled out—not even a drop.

Hassan, Muhammad, and the girl all have the same expression on their faces: another crazy American.

But right now, in this moment, I don't feel crazy, even if I am walking around in socks, carrying skates over my shoulder, standing in a food court next to a skating rink in a mall in Egypt. And I definitely don't feel American. I feel like I come from a long line of strong women like Sittu who stand up for their best friends.

Hassan's expression is priceless—so innocent!

“Hassan, you almost had me convinced you were one of the good ones.”

“Good ones? Good what, Mariam?” Hassan is very convincing. “Is everything all right?”

“Is this your girlfriend?” I roll my eyes, giving her a huge, fake smile. I guess Karen and Beth have taught me something.

“His girlfriend?” Muhammad says.

“Samia,” she says, extending her hand to me. “Hassan's sister.”

“Hassan's sister?” I repeat. I give the plastic cup back to Muhammad. “Hassan's sister!” I grab her hand in both of mine and shake it hard, up and down. “I'm so happy to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” she says, pulling back her hand.

“Excuse me. I'm just so excited Hassan has a sister.”

“Well, I don't know if I've ever gotten that kind of enthusiasm for being a sister, but I've heard a great deal about you and your friend, so it's nice to meet you too.”

“Why were you going to throw juice in my face?” Hassan asks.

“It was just a joke. See?” I point to the cellophane. “Sealed tight.”

“Well”—he smiles—“you did surprise me—”

“Thousands are already there,” Muhammad tells Hassan. “We just saw the news.”

“Thousands?” Samia says, then looks at Hassan.

Hassan shakes his head. “You can't, Samia. Mama suffered too much. She wouldn't live through it again.”

“It looks peaceful,” Muhammad says.

“For now,” Hassan says. “You know that won't last.”

“Well, I think we all need to be there, standing together,” Muhammad says.

“Don't tell us what we need to do.” Hassan sounds on edge. “My sister has given a lot for this country. She lost her baby in prison. No more.”

Samia says, “Hassan, please!”

“Forgive me, Samia.” Muhammad puts his hand to his heart and bends. He reminds me of a younger version of Ahmed. I wonder how Ahmed and Sittu are getting along, and whether she knows what's happening. Thousands. Asmaa Mahfouz doesn't stand alone.

“I know how much you suffered. I hope you can forgive me if I made you feel like you owed anything more.” Muhammad looks at Samia like she's his hero.

“Muhammad.” She takes his hand. “You, my friend, have known more suffering than all of us. Still, you are willing to risk going today.”

“I see that look,” Hassan says to his sister. “Please don't go. Please.” He sounds like a little boy.

“
Habibi
”—Samia turns to Hassan—“for our mother, I am not going, but for Egypt, my heart is breaking not to be there for her when she needs us the most.”

“Thousands are there,” Muhammad says. “Egypt will be fine.”

Finally, I remember Deanna. I have to find her.

“Excuse me, but I must go and find my friend,” I say to them.

“Is she okay?” Hassan asks.

“I hope so. She wasn't feeling well when I left her, and I don't see her on the bench now.”

“We will all go,” Samia says.

“We can help you find her,” Muhammad says.

“Thank you.
Shukran
.”

The four of us go to the ice-skate rental place. There's Mr. Ful. “I wondered where you went,” he says. “I thought you took off with my ice skates.”

I hand him back his skates. “Did you see my friend?”

“The serious girl. She asked me to give you this.”

It looks like the same flyer Safi tried to give Omar.

“What does it say?” I ask.

“It has instructions about where to meet—the real places to gather,” Hassan says. “On Facebook and Twitter, people gave other information so the police would go there. The real meeting place for the protest was spread by word of mouth.”

“There's something on the back,” Hassan says.

I turn it over.

Mar,

I'm going to Tahrir Square. I just have to. Don't worry. Don't feel bad about Hassan. Hey, I'll get over him. He's just a guy, right? Love you. Tell Sittu I love her. I know she'll understand.

With Love,

Sphinx Face

“What does she mean, ‘Don't feel bad about Hassan'?” Hassan asks, reading over my shoulder.

I don't answer him.

“I bet it has something to do with the juice.” Muhammad smiles, showing his crooked tooth.

“I hope she'll be okay,” I say.

“It looks peaceful,” Muhammad reassures me.

“Just saw an update on my mobile,” Mr. Ful interjects. “The police are starting to use tear gas.”

“She'll be okay,” Hassan says, but I know he's as worried as I am.

“Can you show me where the café is? Sittu is there.”

“Of course,” Hassan says. “It's down another level.”

This time I run down the escalator. Hassan, Muhammad, and Samia follow.

“Where is it?” I ask, stepping off the escalator.

“This way,” Muhammad says.

We follow him into a restaurant that reminds me of the set from a fifties detective movie. It's empty.

“Where is she?” I say, not even trying to hide the panic in my voice.

“I'll check the WC,” Samia says.

“Thanks.”

A man who looks like he may be a waiter says something to us in Arabic.

Hassan says something back, and from his hand gestures, it looks like he's describing Sittu. The waiter talks to him for a few minutes, and from both his and Muhammad's facial expressions, I know something is wrong.

“She's not in there,” Samia says, rejoining us.

Muhammad responds in Arabic. Samia looks at me, and I want to cry, her expression is so sad.

“What is it?” I look from Hassan to Muhammad. “Where's Sittu? What happened to her?”

“Mariam,” Hassan says, “an ambulance took her to the hospital.”

“The hospital? I just saw her an hour ago. What happened?”

“We don't know exactly. The waiter said Sittu and Ahmed were eating when she stood up and just fell over.” Hassan reaches out to take my hand, but I pull it away. I don't want to be touched right now. “The waiter said she came to after a few minutes. She wanted to go home, but Ahmed insisted they call an ambulance.”

“The hospital's very close to here. I can take you,” Muhammad says.

“Please,” I say. Then there is shouting on a television by the cash register. I look at Hassan. “Deanna,” I say.

“Go to the hospital with Muhammad. I'll find Deanna.”

“But—”

“He will be fine.” Samia half smiles. “Hassan's not like me. He's good at keeping out of trouble.”

“Thank you,” I say to Hassan and Samia. I turn to Muhammad. “Can we go now?”

“Of course. But first,” he says and winks at me, “you should put on your shoes.”

“I'll wait out here,” Muhammad says when we reach Sittu's hospital room.

“Thanks.” I want Sittu to meet Muhammad. I know she'd like him. But I think she's had enough surprises for one day. I still have no idea what to tell her if she asks me where Deanna is.
Oh
God, please make Deanna be okay
.

“Sittu?” I say, pushing open the door. The smell of bleach stings my eyes.

“Mariam.” Ahmed jumps to his feet and wraps his arms around me. I don't know how I should respond, but when I feel him trembling, I hug him as tight as I can.

“I am so relieved to see you,” he says, stepping back. “She wanted me to go and get you girls, but I didn't want to leave her alone.”

“It's okay. I'm here.” I walk over to Sittu's bedside. She's sleeping.

I raise my eyebrows at the ancient bed they have her in, and at her heart monitor, which looks like it might be the first one ever made.

Ahmed catches my look and says, “They fix things here; they don't throw them away.”

“You sure it works?”

“Just fine.”

“What's that for?” I whisper, pointing to a tube hooked into her nostrils.

“Oxygen.”

“Ahmed, what happened?” I ask.

“We were eating and talking, and everything was fine. Then she said she was feeling a little nauseous. I thought it was something she had eaten, but as soon as she stood up, she went right down.”

I look at the IV in Sittu's arm. I hope it doesn't hurt.

A nurse wearing all white, including a white hijab, comes into the room with a blood pressure cuff.

“Can you tell me what's wrong with her?”

“The doctor will be here soon.” She wraps the black cuff around Sittu's arm and pumps. Sittu doesn't react. I've had my blood pressure taken a few times at the doctor's, and it always makes me cringe. It feels like the cuff is trying to squeeze off your arm.

The nurse says something in Arabic to Ahmed.

“This is her granddaughter,” he responds, “visiting from America.”

“Welcome,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the gauge.

“Is her pressure okay?” I ask as she uncuffs Sittu's arm. She gives me some numbers that mean nothing to me. “Is that good?”

“Low. The doctor will be here soon,” she says again as she leaves.

“Ahmed? You okay?” I ask. He looks pale.

He nods, but I don't believe him.

“Please, Ahmed, sit down.”

“No, no, you sit.” He nods to the chair by the window. I'm surprised that I don't hear any of the traffic noise from the street below, but what kind of hospital hangs dusty drapes instead of blinds?

Neither of us sits down. We both just stand at Sittu's side, watching her like she's going to open her eyes any second now.

There's a knock at the door.

“Mariam.” Muhammad pushes the door open a crack.

“Come in, please,” I say.

“
Asalaam
alaikum
,” Muhammad says to Ahmed.

Ahmed doesn't respond. He just keeps staring at Sittu.

“Mariam, can I talk to you for a minute?” Muhammad asks. “Outside?”

I follow Muhammad into the hallway.

“Your grandfather looks very worried.”

“My grandfather died years ago.” I glance back toward Sittu's room. “Ahmed is a friend. This was their first date.”

“Well, I guess it's true what they say. Love is not on the clock.”

I've never heard anyone say this before. I wonder if it's the translation.

“Thank you—for everything,” I say.

“You don't need to thank me.
Insh'allah
, she will be well.”

I try to smile, but I can't. “It was very good to meet you.” I extend my hand.

He takes it, but instead of shaking, he just holds it. I feel a jolt, not in my heart, but in my stomach.

“Are you asking me to go?”

“I thought you were saying good-bye.”

“Not at all,” he says. “I just needed to tell you…”

A woman holding a clipboard and wearing a white coat and a stethoscope walks past us into Sittu's room.

“That must be the doctor. Excuse me, please.” I pull my hand free, though I wish I didn't have to, then follow the doctor.

“Excuse me,” I say. She looks up from the clipboard hanging on the end of Sittu's bed. “Are you the doctor?”

“I'm Dr. Nassif,” she says, extending her hand to me.

“I'm her granddaughter, Mariam.”

She shakes my hand.

“She's going to be ok?” Ahmed's voice startles us.

“Are you the husband?” Dr. Nassif asks.

Ahmed looks confused. I can't blame him. What are you to a person you haven't seen in decades but might be in love with?

I jump in and say, “He's a close friend of the family.”

The doctor nods but doesn't look convinced. “Well, we can't say for certain until we run the necessary tests—”

“No.” Sittu's eyes open. “No tests!” She tries to sit up but can't.

“Easy, madam.” Dr. Nassif approaches Sittu, removing the stethoscope from around her neck, and says
pardon
to Ahmed, who is hovering over Sittu like he's her guard dog. He moves back some, but barely.

The doctor presses a button on the side of the bed until Sittu is in a sitting position. I guess the bed isn't that old; it uses electricity, not a manual crank, like Hassan's car windows.

“May I take a listen?” Dr. Nassif places her stethoscope on Sittu's chest before Sittu has time to answer.

“Doctor,” Sittu says, “I feel fine.”

“Good to hear,” the doctor says. “You were taking medicine for your heart?” Sittu turns her head toward the IV stand.

“Sittu, please, you have to answer the doctor,” I say.

“The medicine made me feel worse.” Sittu turns back to the doctor, sounding more like a little kid than herself.

“Madam,” Dr. Nassif says, “we believe you had a heart attack.”

“Oh my God.” I put my hand to my mouth. Sittu reaches up and pulls it away.

Ahmed sits down with a plop.

“It's important for us to know what kind of damage has been done.”

“Of course,” I say.

“No,” Sittu says. “No tests.”

“The tests will help the doctor know how to help you.” Ahmed gets up from his seat and puts a hand on her arm.

“All I need is some water.”

“Of course, of course,” Ahmed says, looking relieved. I have to wonder whether it's because he's glad to help in some way or because he has a reason to leave.

“
Shukran
. Now please go.” Sittu waves him away.

As soon as Ahmed walks out, Sittu says, “He's a very kind man but too serious. Taking me to the hospital—what was he thinking? I would have been fine.”

“He had you brought here by ambulance. He saved your life,” I tell Sittu.

“Ambulance? I don't remember any ambulance.”

“Sittu, that's because you passed out.”

She looks at me and then at the doctor as if she's trying to figure out if we're lying to her. “I want you or one of your nurses to get my clothes. I'm going home now.”

I want to yell at Sittu the way she'd yell at me if I was acting this stubborn, but her hand is shaking, so I grab it and hold on.

“Madam,” Dr. Nassif says, “this is your choice, of course.” I'm impressed by the doctor's calm. Sittu is acting so rudely, and Dr. Nassif just shakes it off. “But you must know, if the problem is as serious as I suspect, you may not survive another attack like this.”

“My heart has taken a lot. It can take a lot more.”

Dr. Nassif shakes her head. Her expression tells me Sittu isn't her first stubborn patient. “I still have a few other patients to see. I will give you some time to think about this, and then I will be back.”

“I won't be here,” Sittu says.

Dr. Nassif turns to me on her way out. “I hope you can reason with her.”

Me? Talk sense into Sittu? Me trying to convince Sittu of anything would work out as well as my convincing Deanna not to go to Tahrir Square today. “Sittu, please—”

“I'm tired,” she interrupts me. “No talking now.”

“Mariam?” Muhammad sticks his head in the room. I forgot he was waiting for me.

“You are?” Sittu asks.

“Pardon me, madam.” He enters the room and gives Sittu a small bow. “I didn't realize you were awake.”

“Well, I am.
Yalla
.” Sittu waves him over to her. He comes and stands next to her bed, directly across from me. He really is pretty adorable.

“I hope you're feeling better,” he says.

“I was never feeling bad. I just got a little dizzy, and now these doctors want to run tests. They want my money is what they want.”

Muhammad doesn't say a word as Sittu continues to rant about the medical profession, but he never takes his eyes off her. Sittu likes him; I can tell by the way she goes on and on.

Then Sittu stops midsentence. She looks at me and then again at Muhammad. “So you like my granddaughter?”

“Sittu,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Very much,” he says.

Did he just say “very much”?

“Where did you meet her?”

“He's a friend of Hassan's,” I say, not wanting Muhammad to tell her I started the conversation at the juice bar.

“Why are you interested in my granddaughter?”

“Sittu!” I turn to Muhammad and say, “Please, you don't have to answer.”

“I need to answer,” he says. “It would be disrespectful otherwise.”

I really have been loving Muhammad's Prince Charming–like ways. But now, not so much.

Sittu turns to me and grins. It's hard to believe this same woman was unconscious less than ten minutes ago.

“Mariam's beautiful, of course, but it's clear from the way she worries for you she has a huge heart,” Muhammad tells my grandmother.

Sittu turns to me. “Don't you worry for me.”

Muhammad says, “It's hard not to worry about those we love.”

Yes, I think. I'm worried about two people right now. Sittu and Deanna. I hope she is safe.

Muhammad's phone startles us with its loud, old-fashioned ring. The sound makes Sittu smile. “Now we have phones that imitate phones. What a world.”

“
Allo
,” he says. After listening and nodding, he clicks off his phone. He widens his eyes in my direction like he needs to talk to me now. “It was a pleasure to meet you, madam, and I do apologize. I must take my leave.” He puts his hand to his heart and bows.

“You must come again,” she says. “I think my granddaughter likes having you around.”

“SITTU!” Can she be any more embarrassing?

“You can't run from the truth—or a
sittu
wanting to have some fun,” Sittu says.

“Sittu, if you don't mind, I will walk Muhammad to the elevator.”

“Of course, but, Muhammad, would you mind giving me a moment with Mariam first?”

He nods. “May Allah's blessing be with you,” he says; then he turns and walks out of the room.

“Sittu, why did you have to embarrass me like that?”

“If the truth makes you blush, so what? You'll survive. Besides, he likes you, and I think you like him.”

“I just met him.”

“It's wise to use your head, but in some cases, you have to let the heart lead. This is something you can learn from Deanna.” Sittu looks toward the door like she expects Deanna to walk in. “Where is she, by the way?”

I hesitate, trying to find a place in the middle between the truth and a lie. “We split up for a bit, and I came down to the café to see you—”

“You left her by herself at the mall?”

“No, with Hassan.”

“Get my phone from my bag and call Hassan. Tell him to bring Deanna here.”

I can't call Hassan in front of Sittu. What if she wants to talk to him and he tells her he's looking for Deanna in the middle of the demonstration? I see Sittu's purse behind the chair where Ahmed was sitting, but I don't think it's in Sittu's view.

“Where is your purse?” I ask, opening the drawer of her nightstand and pretending to search around the room.

“I hope it wasn't left at the café.”

“I'm sure Ahmed knows where it is. We can ask him when he gets back. But Muhammad will let me use his phone.”

“Okay,
habibti
,” she says, closing her eyes. “I think I'll take a short rest before we go home.”

I open my mouth to tell her she has to take the doctor's tests, but before I get a word out, she says, with her eyes still closed, “No talking about tests now. Go call Hassan.”

I bend down and kiss her forehead, and then I rush into the hallway. Muhammad's nowhere to be seen. Could he have left? I head to the nurse's station, where I see Muhammad standing by the elevator, talking to Ahmed. They both look like it's the end of the world.

“Hey,” I say. “What's going on?”

Ahmed has three bottles of Safi brand water in his hands. “You can't tell Sittu Deanna is lost.”

“She's not lost,” I say.

“Mariam, that was Hassan on the phone. He can't find Deanna anywhere,” Muhammad says. “The square is getting more and more filled. Things are getting hot.”

My heart starts to pound. “Let's go, then,” I say.

“Where?” Ahmed asks.

“Tahrir Square. Muhammad, you'll take me, right?”

Muhammad and Ahmed look at each other. Then Muhammad says, “We think it would be best for you to stay here. I will go and help Hassan look for Deanna.”

“Muhammad, you don't even know what she looks like, and no disrespect to you or Hassan, but I know Deanna better than either of you. If anyone can find her, it's me.” I don't know whether I really believe this, but I know I have to try. Best friends are supposed to have each other's back. Always.