by S. K. Ali
On our visits, while Mom and Ms. Raymond chatted at the dining table adjacent to the living room, I’d sit in this chair and draw in my sketchbook or play on my PSP or read comics.
Always from this exact chair.
Now I relaxed into the soft leather as the needle went in.
I was grateful that Ms. Raymond had left me alone to it. I think she was in the kitchen.
She’d said that she would be going to the gym. “I’ll give you your space. But I’ll be back before you leave. And I promise I won’t fuss over you.”
I couldn’t believe I’d been upset to see her when I first landed in Doha.
I mean, I knew why I was.
She was completely connected to Mom, completely connected to her disease, to her last days of life.
Seeing her had been like seeing Mom’s casket again.
“Okay, so I’m going down.” Ms. Raymond came over to the living room, carrying plates. “I cut some fruit for you, Adam, for after, and for you, too, Annabelle.”
The nurse nodded her thanks as Ms. Raymond set the two plates of mangoes and strawberries on the coffee table.
After Ms. Raymond left, Annabelle settled into the corner of the sofa and opened a paperback book. “You okay?”
“Yes, thanks.” I nodded to reassure her.
“You want to watch TV?”
“No. But thanks.” I was actually sketching. Without a sketchbook.
In my mind, I was working out the rest of the transformation of the room I was fixing up at home. The world within a room.
The room holding the marvels and oddities of life.
When I got to the part of conjuring slices of wood to evoke blades of grass, the front door opened.
Zayneb walked in.
She didn’t see me at first.
She appeared exactly as she had the first time I’d seen her, at Heathrow Airport, completely absorbed by her phone. When she let go of the door and it swung shut behind her, she even used both her thumbs to tap nonstop into her device, like before.
Like when I got my first impression of her: busy, beautiful, brilliantly blue.
After briefly waiting, staring at her phone, she slid a hand under the front of her hijab, under her chin, and began sliding it off.
As it moved up, and a small slit lay across her eyes, she saw me.
She yanked her scarf back down, a look of shock on the face that remerged from in between the folds of fabric. “Oh my God!”
A dark curl of hair dropped in front of her face. I looked away.
“Hello,” Annabelle said from the couch. “You are related to Ms. Raymond?”
“I’m her niece.”
When I lifted my gaze back, she was looking directly at Annabelle.
“Hello,” Annabelle said again. “I’m Annabelle.”
“Hi?” She glanced at me and then looked away again, blowing up at her curl and then flushing when she tried to stuff it back up and it wouldn’t cooperate.
I shifted my gaze again.
She’s got curly hair?
How long is it?
Ugh. I switched off my stupid brain and whispered to Annabelle, “The remote?”
She passed it to me, still staring at Zayneb.
When I turned the TV on, Cardi B’s “I Like It” blasted out, making us jump.
I flicked it off. Silence showed up again.
“Your aunt told you that your cousin Adam was coming here, yeah?” Annabelle pressed gently. “To get his treatments?”
“No, actually. No.” She stopped fighting the curl and looked down the hall to her right. “I’m just going to drop my stuff in my room and come back, okay?”
• • •
She didn’t come back out of her room.
And I was okay with it.
Her showing up like this, then completely getting blindsided by me sitting here IVed, with Annabelle casually on the sofa, two strangers in her aunt’s living room, must have been awkward. Maybe even scary.
I couldn’t wait for the treatment to be over. To get out of here, go back home and rest, see Hanna.
See Dad.
I groaned and let my head sink into the headrest of the chair. Dad.
Zayneb walked back, her scarf securely fastened now, and I straightened up again.
Her head scarf was blue with white polka dots.
Her standard smile was back on her face.
“So, hi again.” She beamed at Annabelle.
I closed my eyes. God, she was . . . cute.
“Um, Adam?” It was Zayneb’s voice, soft. “Are you okay?”
I opened my eyes to find her seated on the two-seater couch across from me, her phone on the arm beside her. “Yeah. I mean, other than the steroids dripping into my blood to stop my body from attacking itself, yeah, I’m fine.”
“What happened?” She leaned forward. “What do you mean your body’s attacking itself?”
Annabelle looked from me to Zayneb, confusion on her face.
“I have multiple sclerosis.”
Zayneb pulled back, her eyes large. “MS? Isn’t that what your . . .”
She wouldn’t go on.
“My mom had it too, yes.” I tried to smile and then added gently, “Remember my mom is an okay topic?”
And here we were talking about the real taboo topic: my diagnosis.
“I remember.” She lifted her legs up and tucked them under her and then pulled at the hem of the shirt she was wearing. “Isn’t this supposed to be happening at a hospital?”
Her head now swiveling between Zayneb and me, Annabelle looked even more confused. She thought we were cousins, having been told that Ms. Raymond was my aunt, so she was probably wondering why we were so out of touch.
Well, even cousins can keep secrets from each other.
“IV treatments for MS attacks can take place at home if the patient prefers,” Annabelle explained carefully, in a voice clearly communicating she was unsure of what was going on with us.
“Or at aunts’ houses,” I added, raising my eyebrows at Zayneb, the moment Annabelle’s gaze left my face.
Zayneb nodded, bestowing me with a thumbs-up as soon as Annabelle looked away from her. “Even at cousins’ houses.”
Annabelle settled back and nodded. Maybe more satisfied with the state of things now, she picked up a mango slice with one hand and her book with the other.
“I thought you were going to the souk? With the DIS bunch?” I asked Zayneb, genuinely curious. What made her come back home?
She picked at her hem before answering. “I kinda had a late night.”
I waited.
“So when I got to the souk, I was just exhausted. And when the others were getting their henna done, I came back home.” She looked at me, at the IV pump. “I actually didn’t like the way one of them was treating the henna artist, kind of bossing her around. So I guess I got angry and left?”
I didn’t say anything, because a smile was growing on Zayneb’s face, and I wanted to let it grow without stop.
“Like, I had exactly two hours of sleep last night, because I was working on a project, so I felt kind of unpredictable. I was afraid I’d scream a lecture about Cultural Appropriation While Hating on People from the Culture You’re Pretending to Be.” She laughed. “I’m messy like that.”
I smiled. And picked up my phone.
MARVEL: HER AND ME
She was here, across from me, almost the exact distance as we were in the airport waiting area when I first saw her.
At that moment, a week ago, I had a secret I couldn’t share.
And now here it was, out in full view of the girl in the brilliant blue hijab.
I was sitting in her aunt’s living room, and Zayneb knew my diagnosis, and she was sharing her day and laughing like everything was okay.
Thanks. For being chill. About me being here and just in general.
She picked up her phone from the arm of the sofa. Of course. But I don’t get it? Why are we pretending to be cousins
?
Hey do you want to come with me and Hanna and my Dad to the Museum of Islamic Art on Sunday? If I’m up to it?
Is that that beautiful building sticking out into the water? That structure made of cubes?
Yup. Designed by the one and only I. M. Pei.
But isn’t Sunday the dune-bashing thing? That you’re going to? With Emma P.?
I looked at her, searched for a sly smile, a laugh, something. But she didn’t lift her gaze from her phone, just closed her eyes and shook her head, her smile frozen.
Wait, did Emma P. tell her something too? Like she’d told Connor and Madison?
No. Hanna wants to go to an exhibit at MIA.
Pausing, I thought for a minute.
If Emma P. had said something about me and her, I had to set it right with Zayneb.
I couldn’t let her think—
Emma P. does her own stuff. Nothing to do with me. Nothing.
Was that clear enough?
I’m not into that. I mean I am, but not with Emma P. Not with anyone.
Wait, now she’s going to think—
I mean I COULD be into someone. Someone I liked.
Oh yeah, Adam, way to go. Full steam ahead, instead of pushing pause.
I didn’t dare glance up to see what effect my textual diarrhea was having on her. It must be the medication, my extreme impulsiveness. A side effect. Or maybe the remains of the euphoria from this morning.
Okay, I’ll come with you guys to the museum.
Then we both looked up from our phones at that same moment, and, you know what?
Marvelously what?
Fifth impressions are the absolute best.
Her eyes were as wide as her smile.
• • •
I don’t remember what Ms. Raymond said to me when she got back to the apartment. Or the particulars of how I got home after.
The only thing I remember is the trail of questions Zayneb and I texted each other back and forth—her mostly about how I was feeling, about my diagnosis, about MS; me about how she liked her Doha visit so far.
The clearest feeling I remember is this: the way that it felt like the space between us folded and folded, and kept folding until the distance shrank, until we made sense to each other.
ZAYNEB
FRIDAY, MARCH 15
MARVEL: TURNS
EXHIBIT A: A SUPER PHILOSOPHICAL song.
I woke up to Auntie Nandy singing loudly from the kitchen, a song about joy and fun and seasons in the sun. But even though it had such happy words in it, it was an unbelievably mournful-sounding thing.
Oh yeah, it was the weekend.
Adam is coming over again.
It was to get his treatment, yeah, but he was going to be here, in my vicinity, again.
And then on Sunday, we’re going to the museum.
Not dune-bashing with Emma P.
I turned onto my back and smiled at the ceiling.
A curl of hair fell into my eyes.
I flipped on my side again, snuggled into the pillow, more hair covering my face, and, as Auntie Nandy sang on about skinned hearts and knees, saying good-bye, and more seasons in the sun, I thought about him.
• • •
I couldn’t imagine carrying what he’d carried with him all the way here from London, from last fall.
I marveled at his sense of calm and quietness. That he held something so hard inside for so long without bursting.
A small part of my heart hurt so much just thinking of what that must have felt like.
Did he ever feel the need for someone to share some of it, some of the heaviness of knowing he had the same disease that his mom had? Did he ever wish someone would reach out and hold the weight with him?
That small, hurting part of my heart spoke up inside, wanting to offer itself to share the heaviness with him.
“Ridiculous,” I whispered, quelling it. You’re going back home; he’s going back to school. You’re both leaving Doha.
And then my arms began a disturbance.
They wanted to be that part of me that reached out to him. To envelop him. To say he’ll be okay.
I turned on my back again and wrapped those arms around myself, tucking my hands tight against me to hold the ache inside, closing my eyes as Auntie Nandy kept singing of good-byes.
I have eight more days in Doha, so the only thing I can do is help Adam in the ways I’m able to. The halal ways.
I untucked my hands to clear the hair off my face and sat up.
As I got out of bed, I blew that one lone curl off my forehead. Begone, sexy-hair fantasies.
• • •
“Sylvia loved the song I was just singing. ‘Seasons in the Sun,’ ” Auntie Nandy said, her big breakfast spread out in front of her. She raised a fork. “Adam’s mom.”
“Oh. But it’s so incredibly sad sounding.” I picked up a slice of cucumber and rotated it. “Like my heart hurt listening to you.”
“She didn’t think it was sad. She used to sing it whenever someone got something Sylvia wanted, like a position at school or an opportunity she was trying for.”
I stared at Auntie Nandy. Whut? “But that’s still something sad. To sing it when she didn’t get something?”
“No, no. Wait. I’m not explaining it properly.” Auntie Nandy put her knife and fork down. “Okay, let me tell you of the time when Sylvia wanted to display her artwork at an exhibition at Katara, the village I was going to take you to.”
“We’re still going, right?” I put the cucumber slice in my mouth. “To Katara?”
“Yes, for sure. But anyway, Sylvia didn’t get chosen to exhibit her work. Instead, the junior high art teacher at DIS, Vernon, was accepted. And that was an example of when she would get into her ‘Seasons in the Sun’ mentality. Because, the way she explained it, it wasn’t her season at that moment; it was Vernon’s turn to shine. She believed in such a world, where everyone got a turn, a season in the sun.” Auntie Nandy picked up her cutlery again. “She was a beautiful soul like that.”
“Oh, wow.” That was deep. To think you were one of many who deserved great things. To be so unbelievably gracious, graceful. No wonder Adam’s face lit up whenever he spoke of his mom. “You can tell Adam loved her so much. He gets happy when she’s mentioned.”
“Yeah. He’s got a lot of his mom in him. That sense of balance, a way of thinking bigger.” Auntie Nandy resumed eating. “I like that you guys are friends.”
“Well, I’m leaving soon.” I swallowed the cucumber, but it was hard to make it go down my throat. “So, yeah.”
Auntie Nandy paused eating again and glanced at me.
That glance held a lot of unspoken questions, so I quickly shoved it aside by changing topics. “Can we start planning stuff? Mom’s getting here Sunday night!”
“Sure, make a list, and we’ll maximize our days now that I’m off too.”
I got up from the chair, tapping on my phone as if I were starting a list, but what I was really doing, as I walked to my room, was looking up the lyrics to “Seasons in the Sun.”
It was incredibly sad.
• • •
After setting up Adam’s IV, Annabelle sat at the same spot as yesterday and picked up her book, More Unsolved Mysteries.
Auntie Nandy sat on the other end of the sofa, closer to Adam, turning on the TV, looking for something for us to watch.
Adam and I sat across from each other again.
And, as the opening credits of Black Panther began, and we stole glances at each other in turns, I realized something: I don’t want this season in Doha to end.
My arms and heart and the rest of me wanted to be curled and squished beside him in that chair he was sitting in.
• • •
Get on FaceTime, I messaged Kavi. A situation is happening.
I looked at the clock. Oops, she was in class.
Well, there were only seven minutes left before senior lunch hour.
I may be in love. With a g
uy.
A message popped up right away. I’m texting from Fencer’s class. If he catches me I might get suspended too. WHO?
I refused to add anything more. No way Fencer was going to get me, Ayaan, and my Kavi.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“TELL ME EVERYTHING.” Kavi was walking down the crowded halls, earbuds in. “I didn’t even wait for Noemi, okay? I fled. TELL ME.”
I could tell she’d just left Fencer’s class.
“I’m going to wait till you get to the Situation Room.” I watched her walking toward the sunken foyer area, across from which were the windows of the library. She opened the blue door that said LIBRARIES BRING LIFE TO LIFE! and walked through the turnstiles, waving at someone.
“Wait, say hello to Ms. Margolis.” She turned her phone and brought it closer to the library counter.
Ms. Margolis, a pencil in her ear, peered at me. “Zayneb?”
Oh yeah, I wasn’t wearing hijab. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, don’t have my scarf on.”
“How are you?” She looked at me carefully.
“I’m good. It’s nice to see you.” I waved.
“It’s wonderful to see you as well.” She waved back. “Now go talk to Kavi. She misses you intensely.”
Kavi turned the phone back to herself and, after she’d walked far enough away from Ms. Margolis, whispered, “I’m so sorry. I forgot you didn’t have your hijab on.”
I didn’t say anything and just covered the camera on my phone with a hand. “Just tell me when you get to the Situation Room. Then I will reveal everything, including myself.”
“Okay, dish!” The brick wall was behind her. She was safely in our room in the library.
I took my hand away from the camera lens. “It’s . . . Adam.”
“Who’s Adam?”
I scrolled through my phone and found the first picture with the Emmas and him, by the water at his house, the one she’d seen before, and sent it to her again.
“Oh wow, I remember. This guy? So cute. Okay, be in love.” She flashed a thumbs-up. “I definitely understand!”
“No, this is . . . different.”
Kavi leaned back, raising her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think he likes me back.”