Love from a to Z

by S. K. Ali

  She clicked her phone and slid it into the pocket of her jeans.

  “I’m sure your aunt told you about it, but yeah, my mother passed away when I was nine.” I leaned on the classroom door. “And it’s interesting, because the next year, in the fifth grade, I did this exact project on the camera obscura that Hanna copied. Because of my father. Because that’s his specialty, history of the Middle Ages. He’s always been fascinated by everything about that time, but especially the Middle East. The Silk Route, the Crusades and Saladin, scientists like Ibn al-Haytham. And we just engulfed ourselves in that era and then went even more back in time, to Medina and Meccan times. Right after my mom passed.”

  Zayneb nodded, and, just before she turned back to the bulletin board, I caught a glimpse of her eyes.

  The look of fear and worry, that stricken look, had gone from them now. Mostly.

  Relief flooded my body.

  And I had no idea why.

  I examined the sketch of Stillwater. Dad had bought the stuffed toy for Hanna when she turned two. After mom. “My dad converted to Islam a year after my mom passed.”

  She peered at Hanna’s project again and nodded. “And then you did?”

  “Yeah. He taught me what he knew, and I converted a year later.”

  “At eleven.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I was just worried that you’d be affected if I said something insensitive.” She swiveled the lid of her mug, took a drink again, and then lowered it. “So moms are okay topics.”

  “Pretty much everything is an okay topic.” Except my diagnosis, a little voice said. I pushed it away. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Air.” She unscrewed the lid and tipped the mug forward to show me the inside. “There’s nothing in this mug, and I’ve been pretending to drink it. I finished my tea before you even got here, but yeah, I saw you and panicked, because I was worried I’d somehow talk about something weird. So I just drank a lot of air.”

  We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  Mr. Mellon turned the corner, waved at us, and fitted his key in to open the door. Following Zayneb into the classroom, I felt like the birds on her hijab.

  Light and intent on soaring.

  She was the real deal. That rare type: a WYSIWYG. What you see is what you get.

  Third impression notwithstanding, I was pretty sure meeting her went beyond serendipity.

  • • •

  It turned out that for the entire field trip, I wouldn’t be seeing Zayneb.

  Because Mr. Mellon had extra volunteers, she ended up being assigned to another class. A class that went on another school bus and took another tour.

  I glimpsed her once across the macaw enclosure. She was standing back, letting students huddle in between her and the fencing as they watched the colorful birds. I waited to wave, but she never once glanced my way. Her gaze didn’t even reach the birds that the kids and their teachers were getting excited about.

  When I came closer to the fence, I realized why. She was busy shooing a butterfly, one of the hundreds flying around us in the pavilion.

  “Adam, I need it again.” Hanna clutched my arm. “Look at the macaw that keeps peeking out of its little home-hole.”

  I took my phone out of my pocket and handed it to her. She clicked several photos quickly, without even paying much attention to what she was focusing on, and then gave the phone back before Mr. Mellon could see her.

  He had declared no devices for students on the field trip. “We’re going to be in the moment. Here in this real world. Not in another dimension on devices or online.”

  I scrolled through the photos Hanna had taken.

  My sister was such a rebel. She’d taken the pictures just for the sake of breaking Mr. Mellon’s rules. Most of the photos weren’t even that clear.

  Except two. One was a macaw, yes, peeking out of a hole in a tree. And the other was a shot of an empty part of the cage, with Zayneb in the background, frowning at a butterfly fluttering in front of her face.

  Was she scared of them? Butterflies? Or, maybe, allergic?

  “This is so amazing—two of the birds are talking to each other! I need to take another one! Please?” Hanna looked up at me, eyes pleading, tendrils and even chunks of hair escaping from the two ponytails in the back. “Just a teeny video. I want to show Dad!”

  I gave in. It was the hair. She’d been doing it herself since she was five. After she declared that Dad made her look like an octopus whenever he did her hair.

  She looked kind of like an octopus at the moment. An octopus bounding away with my phone.

  “Adam, ready for your next stop?” Mr. Mellon and his group had arrived at the macaw area. Which meant I was supposed to have already moved my group of five students to our next exhibit, that of the Beira antelope.

  As I began the hard task of herding the kids, I heard my name.

  “Adam!” Zayneb waved energetically from across the enclosure.

  Her face was the exact opposite of the image captured on my phone—now it was lit by enthusiasm.

  I waved back.

  She was leading her group of kids in the other direction from where I was scheduled to take mine, so I decided to make an executive decision.

  “Okay, guys, I know we’re supposed to see the Beira antelope. But.” I paused and flipped the pages of the package Mr. Mellon had provided us volunteers.

  Aha, found it: the exhibits schedules for different groups from DIS, along with a handy map.

  Ms. Nielson’s fifth graders, Team C, were the other group that had been at the macaw display at the exact same time my group was.

  That meant Zayneb was with Ms. Nielson’s Team C.

  That meant they were going to see something exciting next.

  I addressed my team using my most energetic voice. “How would you guys like to see an elephant?”

  “YAY!” The two girls and two boys with me cheered and did dances. Where was Hanna?

  Coming my way.

  With Mr. Mellon.

  “Adam, Hanna has something to say to you.” He peered down at Hanna with eyebrows knotted together, his eyes boring into hers with significance.

  “Adam, I’m so sorry for taking your phone out of your pocket,” Hanna said, holding out the device. “So really sorry.”

  I accepted and pocketed it.

  Mr. Mellon shook his head. “We’ll go over field trip rules once more when we get back to school, Hanna. I’m severely disappointed.” He turned to me and saw the stapled trip package in disarray in my hands. “Your group is at the Beira antelopes next, Adam.”

  “No, Mr. Mellon! Adam said we could go see the elephants!” announced one of the girls.

  “Oh no, no, no. You must be looking at the wrong schedule.” Mr. Mellon undid his own package from the clipboard he carried around and flipped through it. “See, right here. The Beira antelope in pavilion five.”

  “Right,” I said. “Beira antelope.”

  The kids deflated in front of me.

  Hanna crossed her arms.

  I led the way to pavilion five.

  There was only room for exactly one rule breaker in our house.

  • • •

  On the bus ride back to school, I found Zayneb’s number on the volunteers’ info sheet Mr. Mellon had stapled onto our package before we left in the morning.

  Hope you had fun.

  This is Adam.

  I took in the landscape whizzing by. We were on the outskirts of Doha, and it was mostly rocks mingled with sand mingled with short, dry shrubs.

  Ha-ha I was just going to text you. I did have fun.

  I looked out the window again.

  Favorite animal?

  At first glance, the scene appeared the same throughout, but subtle color shifts in the rocks and sand made it interesting.

  Whales.

  Wide open spaces and then the sudden introduction of a tumbleweed.

  You saw a whale on the field trip?

 
Or the jarring appearance of a house surrounded by a concrete wall, same color as the land.

  No.

  Sorry I thought you meant favorite animal ever. On the trip: macaws.

  Even though I kinda didn’t pay attention to them. Those butterflies distracted me.

  And sometimes, if you were lucky, when your bus was stopped for a turn, you could see a lizard of significant size moving across the rocks.

  I snapped a picture of the lizard and sent it to Zayneb.

  Oh wow. My group didn’t get to see THAT on the trip. Let me guess, related to dinosaurs?

  I laughed.

  It’s a spiny-tailed lizard. Or as we locals call them a dub dub. I literally just took this pic. Out the window.

  She didn’t reply for a while, even though her text bubble kept popping up.

  Must be something long she was composing.

  The way it should be. Animals in the wild. Not caged. I don’t like zoos.

  She sent me a picture of the outside through her bus window. I examined it but couldn’t see any animals in it, just flatland. And tons of rocks.

  But she was obviously into the environment, maybe even the conservation of it.

  Maybe even animal rights.

  Hey, tomorrow I’m taking Hanna to a rescue shelter for salukis. Want to come?

  Oops. This was the second time I was asking her to go somewhere.

  She was going to think I was too much.

  I glanced at the sky.

  Why did I just feel an instant urge to push send on that text? I’m not impulsive. I’m Adam.

  I consider, ponder, reflect, and only then do I make a move—in any aspect of my life.

  I leaned my shoulder on the sill, rested my head on the window above it, and closed my eyes.

  My movement caused Hanna to jolt beside me, head lolling, eyes flickering open.

  I hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep leaning on me. I sat back up and set her head, hair completely in disarray now, on my arm once more.

  My phone buzzed.

  Sure, I’d love to.

  Rescue shelters are so important.

  She added a lizard emoji.

  I smiled and looked back at the sky. It was clear, without even a tiny wisp of a cloud.

  What was so interesting about the desert was this: It was invitingly ponderable.

  I took another photo.

  • • •

  Dad led us for Maghrib, Hanna and me on either side of him, our three prayer rugs facing the direction of Mecca, Dad’s sajjada just a bit ahead of ours.

  Afterward, he turned to face us. Sitting cross-legged, he said the duas that Hanna was learning out loud, and we, with our heads bent and palms raised, said ameen to them.

  “Your turn,” Dad said to Hanna.

  She gazed up from the gold hijab she’d carefully wrapped around her head for prayers. It was turban style, with the ends brought down and flung around her neck like a fancy scarf. She had dark sunglasses on—something she insisted helped her focus while praying—and the whole effect was of a very fashionable supplicant to God.

  “Thank you for everything You have given us, Allah. Like Adam being back.” She leaned forward and peered at my face to make sure I saw her being grateful. I returned her smile, and she settled back to continue her prayer. “Please, Allah, forgive me for the things I did wrong today, like if I wasn’t aware of it.”

  She was repeating the words of the prophetic prayer that Dad had taught her: Forgive us for the wrongs we did, willingly or if we were unaware.

  I leaned forward to look at her face so she could see me touch a finger lightly to my pocket, the one holding the phone, tapping it when I had her attention.

  “And the things I did willingly, too. Please, Allah, make Mr. Mellon nicer. As nice as the way his name sounds. Melons are one of my all-time favorite foods, so I thought he was going to be my favorite teacher, too.”

  “Hanna,” Dad said.

  Hanna sighed and took off her sunglasses. She placed them in front of her on the rug and continued. “Please, God, forgive me for that conflict of interest I just did. I was unaware for a moment that I shouldn’t talk about any teachers, because Dad’s their boss.”

  “Hanna, your personal prayer of want?” Dad prompted. “You can say it out loud or in your heart.”

  Hanna looked ahead, way beyond Dad, onto the walls of his study, and paused for a long moment.

  Then she announced, “I want to say it out loud.”

  “We’ve been working on developing our reliance on God for wants and needs,” Dad said to me. “She’s getting it. I’m proud of her.”

  “Please, Allah, I want to see the jar with the house and backyard that Adam and Mom made together. One year before I was born. The one I never saw. Adam said it was lost. But You can find it because you can just say ‘BE!’ and it is. You are the most merciful of all. Ameen.” She lifted her palms, wiped her hands over her face like Dad always did, then quickly stood up, picking up her sunglasses and her prayer rug to fold it and put it away in one continuous action. She unraveled her turban on the way to the spiral staircase, just outside the family room.

  I stayed sitting, saying my own duas, reluctant to look up at Dad.

  When I finally did, his head remained bent over his upturned palms, but I could tell he was crying.

  ODDITY: PHOTOS TOO

  As I folded my own prayer rug, I saw what Hanna had seen when she’d looked up after prayer.

  On the wall behind Dad’s head was the photo of Mom sitting on a swing. In our backyard in Ottawa.

  The same photo Hanna had clutched so tight yesterday while I shared the story of Mom and the jar with her.

  Reminders of loved ones, of love, in words, in picture form, were supposed to be good. . . .

  Anyway. At least now I know I can’t even bring up anything with Dad, my diagnosis, anything, until after Tuesday, the anniversary of Mom’s passing.

  Spring break goes like this. Solemn at first, and then, after the anniversary, as Dad remembered us, Hanna and me, he would get chipper, eager to do things together as a family.

  I’ll just wait for him to be ready for my news.

  Lying in bed, I looked at the photo of Mom, the same one of her on the swing. I brought it into my room so Hanna wouldn’t see it and remember the jar again.

  Mom looked like she agreed that both of these decisions of mine were the right course: stop Hanna from thinking about the jar and put Dad off learning I have the same disease Mom had.

  ZAYNEB

  MONDAY, MARCH 11

  ODDITY: TRAUMA

  EXHIBIT A: MY ANKLE, THE right one, throbbing with trauma as I sat outside Auntie Nandy’s building waiting for an Uber.

  An Uber to take me to the dogs that Google showed me when I searched “saluki.”

  Dogs.

  I had initially thought they were lizards.

  When I said yes to going with Adam to the saluki shelter, I’d pictured sad lizards. Sad lizards being bottle-fed, actually.

  Like the desert lizard he’d sent me a picture of on the bus ride yesterday. The dinosaurish dub dub who looked like he minded his own business, unlike dogs, who wanted to know everyone’s business.

  I felt the phantom stitches ache on my right ankle. So it was true what they said about old war wounds. How they flare up now and then.

  But I was bitten ten years ago.

  Trauma.

  I lowered my phone. What was I going to do?

  I mean, the dogs that turned up in a saluki image search were sort of nice and kind-looking, with their long, pointy, slightly pretty faces sticking out of the middle of long parted hair.

  But then there were some pictures where their mouths were open, sharp teeth ready.

  I shuddered and tapped a photo of a kind-looking saluki to enlarge it.

  Maybe if I imagined this dog’s face everywhere at the shelter, I could get through the experience intact.

  Without revealing to anyone—well, to Adam
—that I was terrified.

  I was supposed to let things unfold, not let myself get in the way today.

  I was supposed to be poised. Zen.

  Meanwhile, there was screaming happening in my brain: I DON’T WANT TO GO SEE SALUKIS.

  THEY AREN’T EVEN LIZARDS.

  I lowered my phone again and tried to take my mind off dogs.

  Across from Auntie Nandy’s place construction was happening on a new plaza.

  Men in blue jumpsuits moved to and fro, carrying tools and materials.

  Something was different about them, though. Different from construction workers back home.

  One guy turned this way to pick up bags of cement, and some other men came over to help, and I noticed the difference.

  All of them were brown like me.

  Not one of them was the other brown, Arab, like the people of this country.

  I had never seen so many brown construction workers in my life.

  With what I hoped was discretion, I lifted my phone and took a picture and messaged it to Kavi.

  Yup.

  What do you mean, yup?

  Yup I’ve seen this before. My uncle lives in Dubai. It’s also full of migrant workers like this. From India, Nepal, Pakistan, the Philippines, etc.

  Oh, right.

  They’re often not treated well. Just like our migrant workers here.

  I looked across the street again. One worker took off his hat to wipe his brow.

  Then he looked over at me.

  I busied myself with pretending to dust off my sandals, but what I was really doing was wondering what he saw when he looked over at me, sitting in front of pricey condominium buildings full of Europeans and us North Americans.

  • • •

  As soon as the Uber driver pulled up to the shelter and I saw Adam waiting outside a stucco building with “saluki rescue” in Arabic and English on it, I felt that twinge again.

  The same thing I’d felt every time I’d glimpsed him on the field trip yesterday.

  And when he’d texted me.

  Oh God.

  I was really getting into him.

  I slid out of the back seat to be immediately greeted by Hanna, who popped up to the side of the car from I don’t know where.