Rebels by Accident

by Patricia Dunn

  “Of course not,” Deanna says. She sounds as if she wishes she could take it back when she adds, “I just wanted to help Mariam convince you—”

  “That’s it. Get out.” Sittu points to the door. “Both of you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Deanna says, her eyes suddenly teary.

  “Out!” Sittu repeats. “Now!” Deanna leaves. I grab the bed rail to stop myself from following her.

  “What are you still doing here?” Sittu asks.

  “I love you,” I say.

  “Love? That’s the American in you talking. Everything is about love, all the problems and all the solutions.”

  “No, not everything. But I spent my whole life not knowing you. And being afraid of you.” I smile at her. “You still scare me—but now that I have you, I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Oh, habibti.” She sighs. “You are so much like me but so much smarter. Tell the doctor I’ll do her tests but not tomorrow. Tomorrow, we have a birthday to celebrate.”

  The first thing that comes to mind is Egypt and the rebirth of the country. But then I remember. Tomorrow I’ll be sixteen.

  “You know what would be the best present you could give me?”

  “Fine. I’ll take the tests in the morning.” Sittu closes her eyes, and this time, I know it’s for real. She’s fallen asleep.

  • • •

  Dr. Nassif doesn’t wait until morning. She gets Sittu in for testing immediately.

  Later that night, while Deanna, Ahmed, and I are waiting in the lounge, she comes to tell us that the test results are positive, which isn’t good. Doctors use the word positive for things that are really bad; it’s like they’re messing with our heads on purpose.

  The doctor schedules Sittu for quadruple bypass surgery in the morning, and Ahmed translates for me, explaining that Sittu’s heart is really messed up.

  I finally get through to Baba. After he freaks out about what he’s seeing on the news and finishes telling me he’s trying to get us on the next possible flight home, I tell him about Sittu’s open-heart surgery in the morning.

  Baba doesn’t ask me any questions. He’s quiet for a long time. And if I didn’t hear him breathing, I’d think he’d hung up. Still, there’s something in his silence that makes me think he’s expected this call, that he’s been waiting for it for a very long time. Only I don’t think he ever imagined I’d be the one making the call any more than the people of Egypt expected a young woman on Facebook to inspire a revolution.

  When he finally speaks, all Baba says is, “I’ll be on the next flight to Cairo, insh’allah.”

  Then he hangs up without saying good-bye.

  chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning, the adhan—the call to prayer—wakes me up. I look over at Sittu, and she’s still asleep. She was awake for hours last night until the nurse finally gave her a sedative. Sittu didn’t even fight her. I never could’ve imagined anyone or anything breaking Sittu’s will, but when the doctor told her she’d need surgery right away, she looked so defeated that a part of me wished she still had the fight to get out of bed and walk out of the hospital.

  She looks happy now though, and I hope she’s dreaming of something wonderful. I hope, when she wakes up, the feeling will stay with her until after the surgery is over and she’s well again. Maybe, by then, Mubarak will have stepped down and we’ll have more reasons to celebrate.

  I raise my arms over my head and stretch. My neck’s stiff. Sleeping in a chair all night totally sucks.

  I hear the call to prayer again, and it sounds even more beautiful than it did yesterday morning. Wow, was that only yesterday? It feels like weeks ago already.

  I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my life when I wanted to pray. My mom always made me think that, as Muslims, we should. But when I got to high school and stopped caring about what Mom thought, I stopped praying altogether. Yet today—right now—I really want to pray.

  Sittu’s prayer rug is in the corner, along with the other stuff she asked Hassan to bring her last night. And even though I’m focused on Sittu, I have to admit I’m anxious that he came back with no news of Muhammad.

  I pick up Sittu’s prayer rug, then remember I have to do my ablutions before I pray. I put the rug on the chair and walk into the cramped bathroom. The nurse hasn’t picked up the urine container yet; they must have checked it a dozen times last night, and they took so much blood from Sittu, I began to wonder what they were doing with it.

  As I look into the small bathroom mirror, I try to remember all the steps to do the cleansings. I close my eyes, and I can see myself with Mom, standing at the sink in her bathroom, while Baba snores in the other room. What was it Mom always said before we started? Oh, right: we cleanse ourselves to get our hearts and minds pure before we stand in front of God.

  I open my eyes and turn on the water. I wash my right hand up to my wrist and between my fingers three times. Then I do the same for my left hand. Next, I rinse my mouth with water and spit three times, then rub my fingers across my teeth three times.

  What comes next? I look into the mirror again. The nose. I pinch my left nostril shut, sniffing the water in and blowing it out of my right nostril. I do this three times, then switch nostrils. I splash water on my face, wash my right arm to my elbow, and then do the same for my left—all three times. It’s all coming back to me now as I go through the steps.

  I rub my wet hand over my hair, and with my right index finger and thumb, I reach over and rub around, in, and behind my left ear, then do the same for the other side. I do these things three times, and when I’m done, I realize I only had to do them once. But that’s okay. I cup my hands under the faucet, and I pour water over my right foot and ankle then switch to washing my left foot. I think I’m done, but then recall I have to say something else, but Mom always says it in Arabic. Why can’t I remember? I hit my forehead three times, hoping to shake the line loose from my brain.

  “Mariam? Is that you?” Sittu calls out.

  I shut off the water and rush to her side. “You okay?”

  “Are you okay, habibti? Why the tears?”

  “No tears.” I wipe my face. “Just water from doing ablutions.” I don’t tell her that I do feel like crying.

  “Not even one tear?” she asks.

  “It’s—I just can’t remember what you say at the end.” I lean over to hug her, and now, I am crying, harder than I ever have before.

  “What is it?” Sittu asks, stroking my hair.

  “I totally suck at being Muslim.”

  “Oh, habibti. I’ve made a lot of mistakes with my son. I know this, but I thought I raised him strong enough to raise a daughter who believes in herself.”

  “It’s not Baba’s fault. I’m the one who—” I stop myself from finishing.

  “You’re the one who what?”

  “You’ll hate me.”

  Sittu reaches up and holds my cheek. “I never believed I could love someone more than my own child until you. Now, you tell me whatever it is you need to say.”

  “Sittu, I’m the one who stopped being Muslim. I was ashamed of it.”

  “Habibti, you never stopped being Muslim. Maybe you stopped praying and doing the rituals, but you’re a woman who shows compassion and love for others. I see how much you care for Deanna. That is what it means to be Muslim.”

  “I just didn’t want to be like my parents. And it’s not just because they’re Muslim or Egyptian or because a bunch of psychopaths attacked New York City, like, forever ago. I don’t know what it is, Sittu, but we’re a family of freaks. We just don’t fit in.”

  Sittu pats my cheek gently and shakes her head. “Everyone is different.” She smiles. “So don’t you forget to add me to that family freak tree.” She says this and drops her hand.

  “That sounds like something Deanna woul
d say,” I tell her.

  “Banat ghareeba, ageeba wa gameela begad,” Sittu replies.

  “Banat what?”

  “Weirdo girls,” Sittu says. “Weirdo girls, you and Deanna.”

  “Weirdo girls?” I arch my eyebrow.

  “Your face tells me I upset you,” Sittu says.

  “The Arabic sounds nicer. I mean, when people insult you in English…”

  “Insult you? Habibti, I’m not insulting you. I’m giving you and Deanna a great compliment. Maybe it is lost in translation, but it means that you both are unique and beautiful, and your weirdness is honest, true, real, and must never be lost.”

  “So weird is good?”

  “It’s not good or bad; it’s just what is. God didn’t make us perfect—alhamdulillah, thanks be to God. That’s why humans do some very bad things. But it’s also why we do some amazing and wondrous things. In perfection, there is no brilliance; nothing shines or stands out, and there’s nothing left to discover. It’s through our differences, our weirdness, our strangeness, that we show the world why we’re so special.”

  “What if you just want to blend in?”

  “That’s your choice, habibti, but look at a rainbow. When all the colors stand side by side, they make magic. It’s breathtaking. But what do you get if you blend them all together?”

  “Yuck,” I say. “It’s ugly.”

  “That’s right; it’s a dull, muddy mess. You can be a part of that if you want. For some, it’s where they are most comfortable. But just remember this: If you are ever going to find peace in this world—and I don’t mean happiness, because that will come and go; I mean tranquility—you don’t go around asking, ‘Why am I a freak?’ Instead, you raise your freak flag and ask, ‘How high can I wave this baby?’”

  “‘Freak flag’?” I ask. “Where are you getting this stuff? From the Internet?”

  “Hand me that,” Sittu says, pointing to the prayer rug.

  I give it to her. She waves it in the air and hands it back to me. “Now, if you still want to pray, go pray.”

  “Sittu, I can’t.”

  “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” she says.

  “I want to,” I say. “But I can’t remember how you say the ending in Arabic.”

  This makes Sittu laugh harder than I’ve ever heard her laugh before. “If you were in the middle of the desert with little or no water, you would use sand to cleanse yourself. Let me say it another way. Habibti, ritual is to help us get closer to God, who is in here,” she says, pointing to her heart.

  That’s exactly what Mom told me. “That’s what’s so funny?” I ask her.

  “What’s funny is you think God doesn’t understand English.”

  “Okay, I get it.” I wave the prayer rug over my head, thinking of all those people in Tahrir Square, waving Egyptian flags and risking their lives for their freedom. I walk to the foot of Sittu’s bed. Then, looking at her, I point to what I think is the direction of Mecca. She smiles and points the other way. I lay the prayer rug on the ground, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, it feels natural to pray like this. And I do—for Sittu, for Muhammad, Ahmed, Deanna, and Hassan, and for Egypt—for all of our weirdo selves.

  chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  A nurse comes into the room as I’m folding Sittu’s prayer rug. Her name tag says “Karima,” with Arabic writing underneath it. She’s pushing a cart with a lot of medical equipment on it. For a second, I wonder whether they’re going to do the surgery right here in Sittu’s room.

  “It’s time to get you ready,” Nurse Karima tells Sittu, and I know the English is for my benefit. “How are we feeling this morning?” she asks. Her tone is serious and she doesn’t smile, but there’s something about her that makes me feel like she likes her job and does it well.

  “Alhamdulillah—thanks to God—I’m good,” Sittu responds, but she looks weaker than she did just a few minutes ago.

  “Do you want me to stay, Sittu?”

  “Go check on the rest of the group, habibti. Make sure they eat.”

  “I will call you when we’re done here,” Nurse Karima says.

  “Shukran.”

  “Afwan.”

  “Isn’t my granddaughter beautiful?” I hear Sittu say as I walk out of the room. She’s using English for my benefit too.

  In the waiting area, Deanna and Hassan are sound asleep on the couch. She’s resting her head against his chest, and he has his arms around her. From the way Hassan’s head is angled, his neck is definitely going to hurt, but somehow, I don’t think he’ll mind. I want to wake him and ask if he’s gotten a text or a voice mail from Muhammad, but I don’t. He and Deanna look too peaceful to disturb. Right now, I have to believe that no news is good news.

  I don’t see Ahmed. He’s probably gone home, which makes me sad. It’s been so helpful having him around, but he’s already done so much. The poor man’s only had, like, half a date with Sittu, but it’s clear how much he cares for her. I guess for some guys, one date is enough to know that someone’s special. I guess Deanna’s right: love happens when you least expect it.

  Muhammad and I haven’t even had half a date yet, but I feel like we’ve known each other forever. I think Baba and Mom would like him—well, as much as they’d like any boy dating their daughter.

  Last night, despite my promise to Sittu, I made a lot of calls to New York. My mother is trying to find a flight for her and Baba, but so far, no luck; many flights have been canceled and the others are overbooked. I can’t believe she’s actually willing to fly. Maybe it’s a good thing they’re not going to be here until Sittu’s in recovery. It’s hard enough holding it together right now. If Baba and Mom—the king and queen of worrying—were here, I’d totally lose it.

  I take a seat facing Deanna and Hassan. I press my head against the back of the chair and find it’s a lot more comfortable than the one in Sittu’s room. I listen to Hassan and Deanna breathing in sync, which makes me yawn. I’ll rest my eyes, only for a minute…

  • • •

  “Sabah an-nur,” Hassan says.

  “The morning light,” Deanna chimes in. They are both standing over me.

  “I fell asleep?”

  “Sittu wants to see you,” Deanna says.

  I startle and jump up. “Is it time?”

  “Almost,” Hassan says.

  I hurry to Sittu’s room. Suddenly, Ahmed shouts, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” He’s holding a large chocolate-frosted cake covered with candles. Once again, I’d forgotten all about my birthday.

  “I hope you still like chocolate as much as you did when you were a child,” Sittu says with a smile. She’s lying on a gurney, not her bed, and she looks so tired.

  “There’s, like, a hundred candles on that cake,” Deanna chuckles, walking in behind me.

  “Did you use the whole box?” Hassan asks Ahmed.

  “Of course! Sixteen for the birthday and the rest for good fortune,” Ahmed says. “So make a wish before we burn down Cairo.”

  Hassan and Deanna give him a slightly shocked look.

  “Well, you know what I mean.” Ahmed kisses me on the cheek. I look over at Sittu, and I know exactly what to wish for.

  “You all need to help me,” I say. “You too, Nurse Karima.” This makes her smile. “On the count of three: waahid, itnein, talaata.” Together, we blow out the candles on our very first try.

  “So, someone has been learning more Arabic behind my back,” Sittu says, reaching out to touch my hand.

  “I’m very sorry,” Karima says, waving the smoke away. “We have to take her to surgery now.”

  Ahmed hands the cake to Hassan. “Why don’t you and Deanna take this into the waiting area?”

  Deanna kisses Sittu on the cheek.

  “Deanna, I am sorry I was so angry yesterd
ay.”

  “Family never has to apologize,” Deanna says, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Ah, none of that,” Sittu says. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me. Save your tears for this heartbreaker.” She nods toward Hassan.

  “You’re still trying to ruin my reputation,” he says.

  “I’m still trying to give you one,” Sittu says.

  “Oh, my grandfather said to tell you that you can use the elevator free of charge when you get home, but only for a month.” Hassan says this with a smile, though his eyes are tearing too.

  “If he thinks I’ll ever pay even one pound, you just tell your giddu to be ready for a fight.” Sittu smiles, and for a moment, she looks as strong as she did when we met at the airport. Then she says to Hassan, “Now, you go and take the cake out to the waiting area and share some with the nurses. Deanna, you help him.”

  Sittu’s about to be wheeled off to have her chest cut open, but she’s still directing traffic. I think she’s going to be just fine.

  “I love you,” Deanna says as she leaves the room. Hassan follows her with the cake.

  “Mariam, when are your parents coming?” Sittu asks as Nurse Karima wheels her out of the room. Ahmed and I are walking on each side of her gurney as she rolls down the hall.

  “You told me not to call them—”

  “Mariam,” she says, and gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

  “They’re trying to get a flight right now,” I tell her.

  “You must promise me something,” she says.

  “Anything,” I tell her.

  “Don’t let them make a fuss over me. Those two will drive me crazy.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell them I’ve fallen in love with Ahmed. That should divert their attention.”

  Sittu laughs, and so does Karima.

  Ahmed looks at me and shakes his head. “You’re as crazy as your sittu.”

  Karima hits the button when we reach the elevators. “Only one of you may come along,” she says. “Hospital policy.”

  Ahmed starts to back away, but Sittu grabs his hand. “You come. Mariam, I need you to do something for me right now.” The elevator door opens, and Ahmed holds it.