That Other Me (33 page)

“
Wooooooo! Woooooo!
”

It comes without warning, a noise so eerie that a hush blankets the room. Mariam stands apart, her eyes aglow, lit from the inside by some obscure madness. Her mouth rounds again: “
Woooooo!
Enough!” This time it sounds like a lament, a loss, a heart shattered. It brings tears to my eyes; my hands, raised toward her, turn blurry.

“Pull yourself together, girl,” I hear my father say to her.

Mariam snaps at him, “Don't you talk to me! I hate you! My father is gone, and it's all because of you. You forced me to be here when all I want is to be as far away from you as possible.” She's battling too many emotions. Her voice dips. “Enough pain, enough misery.” She wheezes, “Enough.”

“I'm coming,” I whisper. And just as I'm about to take that first step, I hear a dull thud. I stumble back. It takes me several slow seconds to realize I've been struck, just above my heart. I wobble, teetering on the edge of the bridal stage and fighting to regain my balance.

My father turns around just in time to make a grab for my hands, which flap like the wings of a desperate bird. He lunges but catches only the tips of my fingers; they slip out of his grip as though they'd been dipped in butter. “Baba?” I whimper as I topple off the stage.

The first time I come to, I spit out carpet fluff. My arms are tangled under me. I'm aware of cold air blowing up my legs and straight to my crotch. I'm horrified: are my panties exposed? My legs are splayed like a frog's—I'm sure of it—but when I try to lift my head for confirmation, pain shoots through my shoulders. And I'm out again.

The second time I wake up, I'm shivering beneath a blanket and being rolled onto a hard plank. Men in green coats strap me down. It's hard to keep my eyes open. One of them lightly slaps my face as if trying to wake me up. I hear a click and what feels like the jerk of an elevator. I'm moving now, backward, on wheels. A woman hurries along by my side, weeping and calling my name. I'm sure I know her, but what is her name? I try to clear the fog in my head. I hear again the howling cry of a wolf, which brings to mind an image of Mariam in her bridal gown. And there's her voice, growing hollow and distant, as if she were tumbling down to the bottom of a well. “You've destroyed my life! I have nothing. What more do you want?” Where did she go? I need to find her.

I see the bridal stage: empty. Where is she? My head flops back. I'm moving very quickly now between the abandoned tables. Where are all the women? I pass out again.

They didn't waste any time getting rid of the lights. Ten thousand green, yellow, and orange bulbs came down the very next morning. They'd lined the walls of the house from top to bottom and spread in sickle-shaped threads along the outer garden wall. They rose in spirals around the tree trunks and sat like luminous sunbirds on branches. It's a customary embellishment in the Emirates: a glowing announcement of a festive occasion so that strangers who drive by can smile, point, and say, “Look, someone in that house is getting married.”

I wonder whether the groom removed the lights draped over his house as quickly as my family did. I don't know why I still think of him as the groom, because that's not the case anymore: the marriage is off. It's the only piece of information I have, delivered in one hasty moment by Ammiti Aisha. She whispered it through the doorway and then disappeared. That was yesterday, or perhaps the day before that. I haven't seen her, or anyone else, since.

Under dour instructions from Ammi Majed, they are keeping me locked up in my room. No one has been allowed to communicate with
me since my outburst, which had continued even as I was hustled off the bridal stage and into a car that was waiting to take me home. I wailed as I was half herded, half carried to my bedroom.

The room was crowded with people, a family bursting at the seams. I could hear my uncle shouting at Saif for making a mess of things. He stayed posted in the doorway with his sons, relinquishing the responsibility of dealing with the out-of-control bride to Ammiti Aisha and his daughters. The women, yammering like hagglers in a bazaar, couldn't decide whether to voice their outrage or placate the hysterical bride with soft words. Slumped on the edge of the bed, I hugged my chest and moaned, and whenever anyone tried to touch me I screamed and kicked.

I could not stop. It was like water gushing out of a burst pipe. I could not stop.

And then the doctor arrived. The cold stethoscope sent a wave of shivers through me, and he had to pull the thermometer out of my mouth for fear of its breaking between my chattering teeth. He poked it under my arm instead and declared that I had a fever. He gave me a couple of injections, their effect immediate. Then he delivered his diagnosis: severe mental breakdown.

What to do when the bride goes mad? With the warmth of the medicine spreading through me, I laid down my head and the rest of me followed, still molded into my hard dress. I listened to the doctor explain that my state had been brought on by prolonged chronic stress.

“Stress?” Ammi Majed regurgitated the word. Again: “Stress? What mumbo jumbo is this?” The room turned quiet as he pushed through the women. “What stress, Doctor?” he demanded, his voice gruff. “She eats well. She sleeps well.” A sweep of the arm, and then, “Perhaps it's the marble she walks on, or the sight of those expensive curtains.” Fuming, he shook his head. “Tell me, would living in a house like this stress you?”

My eyes were heavy, but I scoffed at him. He tried to forge a snide smile—an attempt to show that he was still in control—but he was unable to do so: his lips were wobbling like jelly. He glowered at me, but the injections had erased my fear of him and left in its place a feeling of lazy indifference.

“Look at her, she's enjoying this mess, thankless creature that she is,” he said, waving his arms in the air. He stepped toward me, bending over until his face was inches from mine, his breath hot on my face. “I know you,” he growled, keeping his voice low. “You did it on purpose. All this time you have wanted to humiliate me, this family. Now you've succeeded, blurting out those lies in front of all those people.”

I remember shaking my head sluggishly and correcting him with slurred words. “No lies, ammi, only truth.”

He straightened up with so much force that his back cracked loudly. “One thing everyone in this room should know: I will not stand for it!” His finger was knifing the air. “You, Mr. Medical Doctor, no more talk about stress. I don't believe a word of it. You go and you find a real medical reason to explain this, because that's the only thing that will save her.”

As the doctor defended his diagnosis, I dozed off. I think my uncle stormed out, but I can't be sure, even when I dig through my memory for the details of that night. For the next two days, the doctor came back to check up on me. With each visit, he fed me pills that numbed my mind and turned my limbs pulpy, leading to bouts of much-appreciated dreamless sleep. My only other regular visitor has been a new maid who comes in periodically to clean my room. She also brings my meals, which I only pick at if I bother at all. Her name is Ophelia, and she doesn't speak a word of Arabic or English.

No one tells me a thing. And the beautiful part is that I don't care to know anything—until today.

I am restless. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I bite the hardened skin at the edges of my fingernails as I wait for the doctor (three hours
late!) and his sweet stash of pills. And that's when I hear it: a series of wails that reverberates as if coming out of a deep well. They last until the calls for the afternoon prayer from the neighboring mosques drown them out.

I roll off the bed and race to the door, remembering suddenly that it's locked. “Open this door!” Frustrated, I jerk the handle up and down repeatedly, making as much noise as I can—as if that would make a difference. I can't imagine that anyone will let me out. I had voiced my torment publicly. I'd spoken the unspeakable, shaken the foundation, false and rickety as it may be, of this family.

What did I say? I try to recall the exact sequence of my actions, but it's difficult. Images come in bits and pieces, each disconnected from the others, as if telling a story of its own: Dalal lying unconscious with her hands twisted under her, the widow and her son locking arms and storming off, the way I resisted with every shred of strength when I was rushed off the stage. How long did it last? How loud was my voice? How dare they do this to me!

I yell at the top of my voice, “I don't care!” pounding and kicking at the door.

It exhausts me. Breathless, I drop to my knees and glue an ear to the door. I hear more voices now, and the sounds of people rushing about downstairs. I can't tell what they're saying, but their voices are agitated. I sink farther, a heaviness pulling me to the ground. I lay my head on an arm and pull in my legs, sinking into numbness. Nestled against the door, I let sleep take me away. That's where the doctor finds me; he helps me to the bed before giving me a shot.

Two days later I follow Ophelia around the room, pointing my finger at the ground, mixing pidgin Arabic with English to increase my chances of being understood. “
Inti gooli hag ana
, you tell me,
shoo fee
, what's happening,
tahat
, down?”

Either she's deaf or I've turned invisible. Ophelia stays focused on the job at hand, releasing sharp bursts of furniture spray followed by
diligent wipes with her cloth. She scurries from one piece of furniture to the next, obviously in a hurry to finish her work and leave.

When I clasp her wrist to get her attention, she cowers, as if I might strike her. It's obvious that the master's order to isolate the unpredictable bride has inspired gossip among the servants. No doubt they have come up with their own blend of theories on the matter. This one must think I'm violent, so I let go and pat her on the shoulder. This seems to pacify her somewhat. I say, “
Shoo fee bait
, what's happening in house?”

“
Fee mout
, there is death,” she whispers, and tiptoes cautiously backward until she bumps into the door. “
Fee mout
,” she repeats, and starts knocking at it.

“What?” A house in mourning: that explains why it has been filled with people these past few days. Earlier, I'd leaned out through the window—my legs dangling and my tummy balanced on the sill—for a partial view of the front gate. I had spotted women getting out of cars. Now I understand that they've been arriving to pay their condolences. “Who died?” Since I haven't seen any members of the family, it could be anyone.

Someone unlocks the door from the outside. I take a step toward the maid with the intention of blocking it before she can escape, but I stop short so as not to panic her. “Tell me!”

She gives me a mournful look and slips out.

“I was pushed.”

“Pushed, fell, it happened, finished. There's no point going over it again.”

Saif pushed me deliberately, and I want him to pay for it. For the hundredth time, I tell her I want to take him to court. But Madame Nivine will have none of it. She says, “You ruined their wedding, Dalal. I don't know what drove you to it, but there's no sense in taking your family to court.”

“Not the family, just Saif.”

“No!” She shakes a finger in my face. She's cross. I lapse into a surly pout on the hospital bed. “You'll spend all your money on lawyers. You'll expose yourself to the press, and they're always sniffing, always hungry to smear a singer's good name. In the end, it's you who will walk away hurt. Didn't we agree we wouldn't talk about this anymore?”

We did agree, but I'm unable to control the heaving sentiments that come in waves when I least expect them to. I must still be shaken about what happened at the wedding. Memories flash in my head and raise
a series of unanswerable questions. Here's one: my father, hawkeyed, purple-faced, with his hand stretched out. Was he trying to save me, or was it nothing more than a reflexive action? Why do I care? I take deep, noisy breaths to clear my head, frowning at another memory: Mariam encumbered by that heavy bridal gown, looking miserable.

Azza and Hannah told me that while I was out cold, Mariam had lost her head completely. She had started screaming, placing blame mainly on her uncle. She'd accused him of cheating her father and causing his death. She said he cheated her out of her rights.

I held my hands over my mouth as I listened to the girls' account. My father and the rest of the family were stripped of their dignity, shamed, and scandalized, their secrets shouted out for all to hear. I felt none of the joy I'd anticipated that I would feel after such a public exposure, only numbness. One of us was going to speak up; that was the promise we had made to each other when we were girls. But not like this. How I fear for her! What happened next? Where did they take her? What did they do to her? No one has a clue.

Madame Nivine is shaking her head. “Didn't we decide we have to deal with your accident in a clever way?”

“Okay, I get the message!”

They'll be arriving soon, reporters from
Al-Bayan
,
Al-Khaleej
,
Al-Ittihad
, and even the English daily,
Khaleej Times
. A features writer is coming, too, for an exclusive in the glossy magazine
Zahrat Al-Khaleej
. Madame Nivine got in touch with them so we can neutralize all the rumors and feed them a story of our making. This is how it goes: I had an accident. I tripped and fell while performing at a local wedding. There won't be any mention of whose wedding it was, and we're counting on the reporters not to pry. Madame Nivine says the press here is kinder than in Cairo, the journalists more respectful toward one's privacy, even that of a famous person like myself. I'm to charm them and shift their interest toward my voice and music. I'm to give colorful quotes. In short, I'm to make them love me.

“Now you have to look composed, a real lady, with a touch of tenderness and compassion,” Madame Nivine says.

It irritates me that I'm having trouble shaping that particular expression. I've practiced it in front of the mirror so many times it's become second nature—I've used it successfully, too. I've stacked it in my memory, to be pulled out when needed. But right now I can't seem to reconstruct it.

She clicks her tongue. “No, not that face.” Her voice is crisp; it demands results. I make another, and she nods slightly but still looks unconvinced. “Slightly better, but keep working at it.”

My mother is here, too. She left her husband to his oud and jingles and flew out “to be by your side, my daughter” as soon as she heard. There's an unspoken truce between her and Madame Nivine, thanks to my manager's damage control: she quickly insisted that Sitt Zohra stay near her daughter for interviews, and that the caring mother appear in the photographs as well. Mother (I don't call her
Mama
anymore) welcomed the suggestion eagerly. Now they move about like devoted sisters, trying to make the hospital room look as attractive as possible.

Madame Nivine repositions a flowerpot that holds bloodred roses sprinkled with gold dust. They are arranged in a massive heart with a floppy gold bow at the bottom. Mother shifts a rainbow arrangement to my bedside: flowers curving neatly, one brilliant color after another in the correct order—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple.

Azza and Hannah linger by the window, each holding her favorite arrangement. “I love your teddy bear,” says Hannah, stroking the toy, which hugs the stems of plump pink peonies.

“Yes,” Azza says, “but have you ever seen anything like this?” She raises a silver bowl filled with fruits and a mix of exotic flowers I can't name. Hannah agrees on the selection with a nod and leaves the room to check whether the reporters have arrived.

These are the gestures of love from my fans and admirers. I'd hardly had time to settle in the hospital room when the chocolates,
stuffed animals, and get-well cards started arriving. The flowers and balloons spill out into the corridor and put the nurses in a good mood. Even the doctor couldn't keep on his somber doctor's face when he told me I was twice lucky: I didn't hit my head in the fall, and the break in my forearm was minor. “No operation needed,” he announced. He still put it in a cast, though, that has to stay on for another few weeks. It starts just below the elbow and encloses my hand and thumb. Already it's covered with hearts, smiley faces, and signatures in an assortment of colors. The signatures are mostly from various visitors who have popped into my room, people I don't know who found out there's someone important—a star—in the hospital and dropped in to wish me a quick recovery.

It's strange that I'm not able to enjoy all this attention. I smile and put on my best show of gratitude. But inside, I feel numb. I can't even appreciate my good fortune in not having smashed in my head or bruised my face.

Hannah peeps into the room. “The reporters are here.”

With this bit of news, a flush of heat settles in my cheeks. Then that familiar feeling: a delicious churning of nervousness and rapture. I sit up straight, and when my lips stretch to form the appropriate smile for this occasion, it comes out right.