“Of course, Sittu—anything.”
“Go eat two pieces of cake—one for you and one for me.”
“I’ll eat one piece, and the other I’ll save for you,” I say, swallowing hard.
“Even better idea,” she says, pulling me to her and kissing me hard on both cheeks, the same way she did when I first arrived—only now I understand this means she loves me.
“Yalla.” She looks up at Nurse Karima. “I think the pill the anesthesiologist gave me is starting to make me hallucinate.”
“Hallucinate?” Nurse Karima sounds concerned.
“Yes. My granddaughter is beginning to look like a very mature and confident woman.” Sittu winks at me, and I feel grateful that I’ve been blessed with such an awesome grandmother. I can’t wait for her to get better so we can hang out more.
“That’s no hallucination,” Nurse Karima says, pushing the gurney into the elevator. Ahmed joins them.
“Ana bahibbik,” I say as the doors close. “I love you, Sittu.”
chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Cake?” Hassan asks when I join him and Deanna in the waiting area. He’s acting way too casual. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my stomach. And I don’t think it has anything to do with Sittu’s surgery.
“It’s bad luck not to eat your own birthday cake,” he says, handing me a plate with a slice of chocolate cake.
“I’m not very hungry,” I say, putting the plate down on a small table by the TV.
The table wobbles, and Hassan grabs the plate just before it falls. He places the cake on top of the television. He says, “Here in Egypt, if it isn’t broken, you keep it; and if it is broken, you still keep it. Well, maybe that’s changing now.” Hassan forces a smile. I assume he’s talking about the revolution, but I can’t bring myself to smile back. For once, I’m grateful Deanna can’t smile, although I know she wouldn’t even if she could. I know she’s hurting as much as I am, and will be until the surgery is over and they tell us Sittu is going to be okay.
“We’re going to be here a while,” Hassan says. “It was close to eight hours with my grandfather’s bypass, so you really should eat some cake.”
“Oh my God, Hassan,” Deanna says, “stop it with the cake and just tell her already.”
Hassan gives Deanna one of those obvious “not now” looks.
“I knew it,” I say. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Hassan says.
“Then just tell me.”
Hassan looks at Deanna.
“Tell her,” she says.
“Let’s sit down.” I don’t want to sit down, but I do. Hassan takes the seat next to me on the couch, and Deanna hovers beside me.
“Mariam.” He looks at the floor, then back up at Deanna, who makes circles in the air with her hand, signaling he should keep going.
“No one’s heard from Muhammad since yesterday.”
“You called his house?” I ask.
“Yes, but I didn’t expect him to be there.”
“What did you expect?” I’m surprised at how calm I sound.
“He hasn’t checked in with anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
Hassan hesitates again.
“Let me tell her.” Deanna kneels down in front of me and rests her hands on my knees. “Listen, you have to swear, on our friendship, that what I’m about to tell you never leaves this room—or even this couch.”
“You know you can trust me.”
“Swear.”
“Okay, I swear.”
“On our friendship,” she repeats.
I’m starting to lose patience, but I pledge my oath. “I swear on our friendship.”
Then Hassan says, “Muhammad and I were part of the April Sixth group—”
“They were the organizers,” Deanna interrupts. “Yesterday too.”
“We were a few of the organizers,” Hassan explains.
I can’t believe that they were involved at all. “You just seem like such regular guys.”
“We are regular guys and girls. We don’t really know each other too well. We don’t make calls; we just text using SIM cards we buy for that purpose. We don’t even use our real names, so if the police pick any of us up—”
“In case they torture you, they won’t learn the real names of anyone else involved,” I finish for him.
Hassan nods.
I think of Baba and wonder how different his life would have been if he’d never been arrested and tortured. Strange to think I might never have been born—or how different my life would have been if my parents had met here in Egypt.
“We never expected it to become such a huge protest,” Hassan tells me. “The last I heard from Muhammad was when he texted all of us, asking to help him find an American girl. I knew it was him, of course. We texted back and forth a little, and I was having no luck finding her anywhere either.”
“Oh my God, if something happened to him, it’s all my fault,” I say, realizing I was the one who sent him out to look for Deanna.
“No, Mariam,” Deanna says. “I’m the one who’s to blame.”
“Stop it, both of you,” Hassan says, looking first at me and then at Deanna. “You both need to get over yourselves. Feeling responsible for any of this is, well, egotistical. Muhammad makes his own choices.”
“Okay,” Deanna and I say in unison.
“Good,” Hassan says.
“But we have to do something to help him,” I say.
“Everything that we can do for Muhammad is being done,” Hassan says. “People are out looking for him, and if—and this is only if—he’s been hurt or arrested, we’ll find out soon enough. Right now, all we can do is wait and eat the cake.”
Hassan picks up my plate from the top of the television set, sits down on the couch, and begins to eat. Deanna and I sit too, and we wait.
A little while later, Ahmed comes into the room waving his phone. “Mariam, it’s your mother. She sounds upset.”
Deanna mutters to Hassan, “She always sounds upset.”
Before I can tell her not to diss my mother, Ahmed shoves his ancient phone at me.
“Thanks,” I say. “Mom?”
“Mariam, I’m so glad to hear your voice. I tried Sittu’s cell phone, but I couldn’t get through.”
“Mom—”
“We still can’t find a flight. You’re staying in the hospital like you promised? Right? No going out. The TV is showing the police attacking people on the streets.” Her voice gets louder and louder, and I can feel her fear right through the phone.
“I promise, Mom. Where’s Baba?”
“We have to get you home right now,” she says.
“Mom, it’s okay. I’m okay. We’re safe. Please, Mom. It’ll be okay. Where’s Baba?”
“He said he was going to speak with a friend of a friend who does travel bookings for businesses. I don’t really know where he is right now.” I hear my mother take a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry you’re alone with all that’s happening there and your grandmother in surgery.”
“It’s okay. I’m not alone. Deanna’s with me.”
“She’s just a kid, Mariam.”
“Mom, she’s not just a kid. And I’m not a kid either. I’ll call when Sittu gets out of surgery. Please give Baba a kiss for me.” I end the call. I don’t think I’ve ever hung up on my mother before.
“Thanks,” I say, handing Ahmed his phone.
“Are you okay?” he asks me. I must look as sick as I feel.
“I’ve never heard my mother sound so worried before,” I tell him.
“Parents are always going to worry,” he says.
“I know.” But this time, I’m probably just as worried as my mom—maybe even more. My
mom’s worried about me, but I’m worrying about Sittu and Muhammad. And when I look over at Hassan, who’s pulling back the drapes to look out the window, I know he’s worrying for all of Egypt.
“Ahmed, may I use your phone too?” Deanna asks. “I really should call my mother.”
“Of course,” he says.
Deanna takes his phone. “How old is this thing?” she asks.
“If it’s not broke…” Ahmed says with a smile, but Deanna’s already stepped into the hallway.
Hassan turns to me. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, walking over to join him. We both look out the window, and it’s eerie how few cars there are on the road.
Then Hassan says, “I haven’t known him very long, but he seems like someone who can take care of himself. He’ll be okay.”
“Thanks,” I say, and my stomach hurts a little less until I see a tank rolling up the street.
“You have to see this.” Hassan waves Ahmed over to the window.
“A tank!” Ahmed says, peering over Hassan’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen tanks in the streets of Cairo before, not even during the sixty-seven war.”
“It must be so hard living in a place like this,” I say.
“A place like what?” Hassan asks, with an edge in his voice that I’ve never heard before.
“You know—”
“Oh, you mean a place where the government oppresses people and accuses them of crimes they didn’t commit, then throws them in jail without trials?”
I stare at him. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or sad—or maybe a little of both.
“I think Hassan’s talking about the U.S.,” Ahmed says, watching what’s happening below like Sittu and I watched the traffic from her balcony.
“I know things aren’t perfect in America, but at least people have rights.”
“Not all people,” Hassan says. “Do you know how many people in the States have been put into prisons without ever going on trial?”
“That’s against our constitution,” I say.
“Mariam, Homeland Security doesn’t have to follow the constitution,” Ahmed tells me. “As long as the president declares something a national security risk, our laws get thrown right out the window.” Ahmed is still focused on the street.
“My brother in New Jersey lost his job after 9/11,” Hassan says, making a fist, but he keeps his arm at his side, “because Homeland Security officers came around, asking questions about him.”
“What did he do wrong?”
“Wrong? He did nothing wrong. His name came up on some list because he donated money to a charity that gives medical relief to Palestine. There were no charges, but my brother’s boss didn’t want any problems. It took him almost a year to find another job, and he had to take a big cut in pay too.”
“Okay, so a lot of bad stuff happened before, but at least now we have Obama.”
“You mean your president who promised to close the detention camp at Guantanamo Bay?” says Hassan, sounding sarcastic. “Even your courts demanded that it be shut down, but your military continues to hold untried prisoners.”
“Sounds like what happens here,” I say.
“It’s nothing like what happens here!” Ahmed sounds defensive.
“Well, he made a good speech,” Hassan interjects. “Still, the tear gas dropped on us yesterday was made in America.”
“This is true,” Ahmed says, walking over to the couch and plopping down.
I lean against the wall, looking down at the chocolate birthday cake and the melted candles. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I were at home. I miss my mother and father and the dorky birthday celebration they would’ve thrown for me.
Hassan’s phone beeps and he pulls it from his pocket. As he reads the text, I watch the expression on his face, but there’s nothing I can interpret.
Then Deanna practically dances into the room, she’s so excited. “My mom says back home, people are organizing marches in Manhattan and Queens and in Jersey too, in support of the Egyptian people! Isn’t that great, Mar?” She looks at me for approval. I manage a little smile, and she asks, “Hassan, did you hear me?”
He looks up from his phone. “They think Muhammad was arrested,” he says quietly.
My head starts to spin. I reach out to steady myself, but the only thing within reach is the TV. It comes crashing down with me—along with the cake and any hope I still had that Muhammad was safe.
chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ahmed helps me to my feet. “Ok?”
“I’m fine,” I say, as Hassan dumps cake into a wastebasket.
Ahmed lifts the TV back onto its stand. “If it isn’t broken,” he says, almost to himself.
“Oh God—Deanna.” I point down to her now frosted feet.
“They’re just shoes,” she says, and kicks them off to the side.
“Mar, take a seat on the couch,” she says to me.
“Do you want some water?” Ahmed asks, looking over my head toward the doorway, like he’s expecting Sittu to walk through at any moment.
“Not thirsty, thank you,” I say.
Ahmed stands there for a minute, like he doesn’t know what to do next. Finally he says, “You know, I think I’m going to go find a mop. Or maybe see if there’s any news about your sittu.”
“That sounds good,” I say, even though I know it’s way too soon for the surgery to be over. Sometimes you need to just keep moving, keep occupied.
When Ahmed leaves, Deanna takes a seat on the couch and pats the space next to her. I feel like we’ve spent a lot of time on this plastic-covered monstrosity.
Deanna puts her arm around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder.
“I know,” Deanna says. This is one of the reasons why I love her so much. She never tries to pretend things are better than they are. “But let’s try not to worry too much.”
“I never told you how afraid I was when we were in jail together.”
“So was I, but then I remembered I wasn’t alone.” She pulls me closer to her.
“Do you think they’re torturing him?”
“Let’s hope not,” Deanna says, and we both look down at her socks, which are covered in tiny hearts.
“Maybe we should clean up your shoes.”
“Where are my shoes?” Deanna asks, looking to where she kicked them off.
“Where’s Hassan?”
“He must have snuck out and taken my shoes with him.”
“Wow, if a guy will wash cake off your shoes without even being asked, he really must be in love,” I tell her.
“Yeah, he’s pretty great,” Deanna says, giving me a squeeze.
I lift my head. “Your mother—maybe she can contact that group she is always raising money for.”
“Amnesty International?” Deanna says. “I’m sure they’re here already, but I can see whether my mom can do anything.”
I know she’s trying to be positive, but I remember what Ahmed said at the airport on the day we first arrived: “American lawyers are not what these people need right now. Prayers are what they need.”
I close my eyes and pray until I run out of words. Then I rest my head on Deanna’s shoulder until I fall asleep.
• • •
“Maybe we should all get some air and some food,” Hassan says.
“I don’t want to eat,” I say.
“Mar, come on. We’ll get that stuff you love, with the pita and the vinegar at the bottom.”
“You two go. I’ll wait here. You can bring something back for me, okay?”
“How about ful?” Deanna teases, and she almost looks like she’s smiling.
“Yes, ful is good,” Hassan says, not understanding our joke. “It’s the national food.”
“She’s allergic,”
Deanna explains.
“You sure you’re Egyptian?” Hassan smiles.
“You know, Hassan, I’m sure. Very sure.”
Deanna squeezes my hand.
“I’m Egyptian, but I’m no Cleopatra. And I’m obviously not putting my life on the line to change the world. I’m just Mariam: one hundred percent Egyptian and one hundred percent American.”
“And one hundred percent crazy!” Deanna says. She hugs me so tight I can’t breathe.
Hassan pulls Deanna away from me. “You’re suffocating the woman.”
Woman. That’s the second time today someone has called me a woman—first Sittu, now Hassan. Strange that for so long, all I wanted was for my parents to stop seeing me as their little girl and start treating me as an adult. But right now, I’d give anything to be in Mom’s arms while Baba makes me his special mint tea.
“Go ahead, you two. Get us some food.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Deanna says.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just take a little nap. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“You sure?” Deanna asks.
“Very sure,” I say.
Deanna and Hassan leave. This is the first time I’ve been alone since… I can’t remember. I don’t think I’ve ever really been alone. The closest I get is when I’m in my room, asleep, but my parents are always right there in the next room. I think about putting my feet up on the coffee table, but I don’t want to look like a rude American.
I stare at a painting on the wall. It’s a picture of a sailboat, but the colors are so faded it’s hard to tell where the water starts and the bottom of the boat ends. I don’t know why, but looking at it reminds me of the pyramids. I was so dreading that trip, and it turned out to be such a wonderful day. Maybe today will turn out to be a good day too. I hope so.
“Mariam?” a nurse asks from the doorway.
“Sittu?”
“She’s still in surgery. But you have a call at the nurses’ station.”
Maybe it’s news about Muhammad, or maybe it’s my parents. I race to the phone faster than I’ve ever gone anywhere in my life.
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