In a Perfect World

by Trish Doller

  Adam is still sleeping when I wake and I try to commit his profile to memory because we are living on borrowed time. Soon his father will be fully recovered and Adam will go back to work. We’ve started something we won’t be able to finish.

  “You are thinking very hard.” He taps his finger on the end of my nose, bringing me back.

  “Trying to figure out what you’ve got planned next,” I lie.

  “You will never guess,” he says. “But I am thinking twice about going back to land. I have never had such a relaxing day.”

  “Maybe we could just sail away.”

  He strokes my hair, his hand coming to rest against the side of my neck. “Such a good dream.”

  • • •

  Stepping off the felucca feels like stepping back to reality and I don’t much care for it. Except Adam bristles with excitement and I can’t help but catch it. He tells me we’re going to a place called Saqiat El Sawy. “In English it means El Sawy Culture Wheel; it is a place of music, art, and film. Every day they have events, and tonight we will hear my favorite band.”

  The entrance to the Culture Wheel is tucked beneath the 15th May Bridge in Zamalek, so I am expecting it to be a tightly packed little venue like some of the places we go to back home. But the complex stretches along the river, boasting several performance halls, open-air concert spaces, and a café-style seating area near the water. The whole place gives off an industrial vibe, but small trees and patches of grass here and there soften the effect, increase the charm. And the lights strung along the Nile cast a golden glow. It feels . . . magical.

  There are several events happening at once—a puppet show, a calligraphy workshop, a poetry recitation, and a Japanese hula dance exhibition—but we are here to see an Egyptian reggae band. And when we enter the concert hall, Adam’s friends are waiting for us. All except Bahar.

  “I would never have guessed reggae,” I say.

  Adam grins. “Did I not say this?”

  “You did, but I’m still surprised.”

  “A lot of us like reggae, rap, indie, and we even listen to American pop music,” Hasnah says. “If anything, be surprised that heavy metal shows usually draw the biggest crowds at the Culture Wheel.”

  She isn’t mean about it, but I still feel embarrassed that I bought into a musical stereotype just because Adam’s dad listens to Arabic music in the car. Adam keeps the radio off when he drives (one less distraction), so I wouldn’t have a clue about his tastes—or what kind of music people his age might like.

  As the band takes the stage, I am deflated. Like I messed up with Adam’s friends. Magdi grabs Hasnah by the hand and twirls her, making her giggle. Omar bobs his head to the rhythm and sings along. Reggae here is the same as reggae everywhere, but not knowing the words makes me feel even more outside. Adam and I together, alone, are perfect. We always have things to talk about, but around his friends I realize that I don’t know very much at all. I can’t stop myself from wondering if he’d feel the same way around my friends.

  Adam leans into me, his mouth beside my ear. “This song is about a small house, a poor house where the mother all the time worries about her family and the father doesn’t know how he will feed his children. But also how people may have wealth to build a thousand houses but are poor inside.” He taps his chest. “Their hearts are small houses.”

  “I wish I understood.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about the language or his friends. Probably both. I want to fit in.

  “With time you will,” he says, and I smile because he doesn’t know that he read my mind—again.

  From the other side of the floor, Hasnah beckons us to come dance. Everyone is moving and the day has been too good to waste what’s left, so I take Adam’s hand and lead him over. By the time the band has finished their set, my hair is damp, my shirt is sticking to my back, and I have at least one thing in common with Adam’s friends.

  We say good-bye to them with hugs and cheek kisses. Omar gives me a friendly wave. Hasnah takes my phone number and suggests we get together without Magdi and Adam. I tell her I like that idea.

  “This day,” I say as Adam and I walk through the Culture Wheel, bathed in the glow of the string lights. A breeze blows in off the river, cooling my skin. “I can’t remember having a better day than this one.”

  After three years with Owen, I should have lots of memorable days—and I do—but this one is perfect. Until my phone rings and I hear a hint of panic in my mom’s voice on the other end of the line. “Caroline, where are you?”

  “Just leaving El Sawy Culture Wheel,” I say.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “Mom, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  “There was an attack on a clinic today in Libya. Not OneVision, but two doctors were killed and several people injured. I just—it’s getting late and you aren’t here, and I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be home soon.”

  “I was going to ask if you wanted to have tea before we leave,” Adam says. “But now we should go back.”

  I nod. “She sounds pretty shaken up, and with my dad not here . . .”

  “I understand.”

  Even though we’re in agreement that I need to get home, the drive goes too fast, and then we’re outside my building too soon. Adam walks me into the vestibule and summons the elevator. When the doors are closed behind us, he pins me gently against the elevator wall, his fingers sliding into my hair as he kisses me. He runs his thumb across my lower lip, then follows with his mouth, a new move that makes me shiver. And when his tongue touches gently against mine, spontaneous combustion seems not only possible but imminent. We are both breathless when he pulls slowly away, releasing me just as the doors open.

  In the hallway outside my apartment, I rest my forehead against his and keep my voice low so my mom and the neighbors won’t hear. “Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

  “From Nic—from American films.”

  “Wait. You were going to say Nicholas Sparks, weren’t you?”

  “Aya made me watch them,” he protests, his cheeks coloring.

  I laugh softly. “Them? Your sister forced you to watch multiple Nicholas Sparks movies?”

  He silences me with another kiss, and how he learned doesn’t matter anymore. The elevator grinds to a stop on my floor and we jump apart as the doors slide open. Masoud pokes his turbaned head out to survey the hallway. His eyes narrow when he sees us standing alone and he says something in Arabic.

  Adam rolls his eyes. “He says it is time for me to go. So . . . good night.”

  He makes no move to leave, though, and I can’t hold back a smile. “Night,” I say. “Thanks again for today.”

  The way his cheek dimples when he smiles back is nearly as good as one last kiss. “If I could, I would give you every day like this one.”

  I slip quietly through the front door as Adam steps onto the elevator with the bowab, and I’m lucky I don’t have to be part of that conversation. My mom leaps up from the couch as I enter the apartment and gathers me into a python squeeze hug. Her breath rushes past my ear, as if she’s been holding it until I got home. She relaxes against me and I can almost feel her tension drain away.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Sometimes I think bringing you here was a mistake.” She untangles from me and scrubs the heel of her hand against her eyes, wiping away tears. “Putting myself in danger is one thing, but—”

  “Mom, everything’s fine. I’m safe.”

  “Maybe you should go back to Ohio.”

  A small bubble of panic wells up inside me. My time in Cairo already has an expiration date that’s too soon. I don’t want to leave sooner. “You’re overreacting.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She strokes my hair back with her hand and kisses my forehead. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll talk about this more when your dad gets home.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Sleep? Ha! I’m still floating in a bu
bble of happiness as I log in to my video chat with Hannah. Except there’s a guy sitting beside her, sporting a buzz cut and impressive biceps, both of which surprise me. Hannah is usually attracted to guys who are kind of scrawny, but Vlad is built like a wall. He’s a great-looking wall, though.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I wanted you to meet each other.”

  The truth is, I wanted to talk to her about today and about Adam. But as Vlad waves and says hello to me through the computer screen, Hannah beams at his profile like he’s the greatest thing since pizza. I know exactly how she feels right now, so I set aside what I want and wave back. “Hi there. I don’t mind at all.”

  For the next ten minutes I play third wheel as they talk, mostly to each other. Hannah is gentle in the way she corrects Vlad’s grammatical mistakes and it’s clear by his effort to get everything right that he wants to impress her. Language is the only barrier between them and they’re overcoming it. I envy that so much.

  From the other room comes the jingle of keys and the click of the front door closing. Dad’s here.

  “Hey, Hann,” I interrupt. “I’m so sorry to cut this short, but my dad just walked in the door. Since I haven’t seen him in a while—”

  “Go,” she says. “Love you to the moon.”

  “And back.”

  Dad comes into my room as I close the laptop. He looks exhausted from traveling but envelops me in an extra-big hug. “You’re up late.”

  “I was just talking to Hannah,” I say. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “That makes two of us, kid.” He ruffles my hair. “I’ve missed you. Maybe while I’m home you can show me around?”

  “Definitely.”

  Sleep feels so far away as I fall into bed, and the day swims through my head like a dream I don’t want to forget. I wonder if Adam sleeping or if he’s thinking about me, too.

  When I finally wake the next day, Mom has a plan in place. She’s taken the day off from the clinic and called Adam to drive us to the Khan.

  Aside from a quick hello, Adam and I can’t really talk to each other in the car—at least not the things we want to say. I sit with my mom in the back, try not to stare at him in the rearview mirror, and hope my heart isn’t glowing like neon on my sleeve. When we reach the bazaar, I’m disappointed when Mom arranges a time for him to pick us up and sends him on his way.

  As we walk through the Khan, my mom tells Dad and me about some of her more problematic patients—people who come with broken bones and open sores, rather than eye problems—but playing on repeat in my head is the image of Adam kissing me in the elevator. It isn’t until my parents go silent that I know I’ve missed something.

  “What?”

  “Are you even listening?” Mom asks.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m kind of hungry.”

  “Caroline, you ate breakfast.”

  “I know.”

  Although I’m not actually hungry, we stop at a street vendor for a plate of fūl. I show Dad how to pinch the bean mixture between pieces of bread, and he likes the dish so much that (fortunately for me) he eats almost the entire order.

  “So I asked if you had any ideas about what we might bring Manar tonight as a hostess gift,” Mom says as we resume our walk through the alleys and archways. “If we were in Ohio, I would take a bottle of good wine, but that won’t work here. And the guidebooks all suggest chocolates, but we did that for Ahmed when he was in the hospital.”

  “Mrs. Elhadad was wearing a really pretty hijab when we met her,” I say. “Maybe we could buy her a scarf. Or . . . everybody likes dessert. Maybe a cake?”

  “Both,” Dad says. “Get both.”

  We spend a couple of hours exploring the Khan and buying more decorations for the apartment, as well as some gifts for people back home, and I haggle successfully for a coral-colored scarf with metallic gold flowers embroidered along the edge. Perfect for Adam’s mom. I pay attention as my mother talks about how her assistant has increased the number of male patients at the clinic and as Dad talks about how his boat spent a week of their hitch at the dock, waiting out a hurricane. I tell them both what I learned about the City of the Dead.

  “I’d like to see that,” Dad says.

  “Some of my patients live there,” Mom says. “Many of them need so much more than I can provide. I’ve been treating bug bites, respiratory infections, and minor illnesses. None of them seem to care that my specialty is ophthalmology.”

  Adam meets us at the Khan at the appointed time and helps carry rugs, tapestries, and trinkets to the car. He stops at a bakery so Mom can buy a chocolate layer cake for Manar and, as he pulls up in front of our building, reminds us that he’ll return at 8 p.m. to pick us up for dinner. Even though I know it’s his job to drive us around, Adam is my friend now—more than a friend—and it’s uncomfortable treating him like an employee. As I slide across the backseat toward the door, our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and he scrunches up his nose, making me laugh.

  • • •

  My parents are still in the bathroom—Dad finishing his shower, Mom blow-drying her hair—when the doorbell rings. I close my bedroom door so they won’t be able to see the mountain of clothes I built while trying to find the perfect outfit for dinner with Adam’s family. Even though I’ve already met them, I still want to make a good impression.

  “I’ve got it,” I call out as I open the front door.

  Adam is dressed in a pair of navy chinos and a white button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled. Freshly shaved, curls damp, and smelling like soap. The sight of him stops me in my tracks. His gaze slides from my bun to my sandals—in exactly the same way as some of the other Egyptian guys I’ve encountered—but there’s nothing annoying about Adam’s attention. It makes me glad I went with my favorite white maxi dress with light-and-dark-blue-watercolor stripes and a navy cardigan. We kind of match, which sends a little thrill through me.

  “Wow. Hi.” I glance toward the bathroom, where Mom’s blow-dryer is roaring, then tilt my face up to steal a kiss. Risky but so worth it. “You look exceptionally handsome right now.”

  He touches my chin, kisses my forehead, and says, “You look exceptional always.”

  The blow-dryer switches off and I step back, inviting him all the way into the apartment. Adam sits on the couch while I choose the chair, so when Mom emerges from the bathroom a moment later, heels clicking on the hardwood, we’re the picture of propriety.

  “Casey’s just about ready,” she says as she goes into the kitchen for the cake.

  Since bright colors, dress clothes, and my dad don’t really mix, he comes into the living room wearing a dark gray button-up shirt and black jeans. His Doc Marten shoes are buffed to a shine. With his sleeves rolled down and buttoned at the wrist, the only tattoo that really shows is the one around his ring finger. As a newly married deckhand, he nearly lost that finger when his wedding band got caught on the boat engine, so he traded it for permanent ink.

  “You clean up pretty nice,” I say.

  Mom hands him the cake and gives him a lingering kiss. “Very sexy.”

  I grimace at the parental PDA, making Adam laugh.

  “How terrible it must be to have parents who love each other.” Dad ushers us out the front door.

  I grin at him. “It’s the worst.”

  “Listen, kid, if you find someone you love half as much as I love your mom, you should consider yourself lucky.”

  What I feel for Adam Elhadad can’t be love—that would be crazy—but when I glance at him from the corner of my eye and he smiles at me, the butterflies in my stomach go wild. And I consider myself pretty lucky.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Elhadads’ apartment is on a residential street lined with apartment towers. The streets are narrow with no houses or trees. And while the buildings aren’t crumbling like the apartments in Manshiyat Nasr, they’re also not upscale like our place in Manial. Adam leads us to a brick building where the bowab is a skinny, bearded man
who sits on a kitchen chair beside the door. At his elbow is a tiny table with a glass of tea and a cigarette burning in an ashtray. When he speaks to Adam, there are holes in his mouth where some of his teeth should be. Adam gestures toward us as he replies. The man says something else as he opens the door for us, but Adam shakes his head in refusal.

  “In most things, Gaber is a help,” Adam says as we climb the first flight of steps. “But he demands fifty piastres from each person to operate the lift. Since my family lives on the second floor, we take the stairs. Alhamdulillah we don’t live on the eighth floor.”

  At the top of the second flight we enter the hall and follow Adam to the first door on the left. He knocks, identifies himself, and—after waiting a beat or two—enters. Mr. Elhadad is first to greet us, and he looks more robust than the last time we saw him. The color has returned to his face and his eyes are bright again.

  He welcomes us to his home. Cheek kisses are exchanged. Gifts are offered and thanks given. Shoes are left at the door. Adam excuses himself back into the hall. And then we are swept into a small, formal living room packed with furniture. Old-fashioned gold-and-crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceilings, casting a warm glow over the room.

  “Your home is lovely,” Mom says as Mrs. Elhadad brings in a tray of tea for the adults. Aya follows behind with Pepsi for herself, Adam, and me. She greets everyone in the room, then sits beside me on the couch. She’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting khakis with a wide brown belt, a long-sleeved green-and-white striped top, and a green hijab with tiny black polka dots. I touch her sleeve. “Is your wardrobe ever not on point?”

  Our families make small talk over a plate of feteer filled with cheese and figs, and a feta cheese dip made with cucumbers and fava beans. Mr. Elhadad tells us he is ready to drive again and I wonder if Adam is as disappointed as I am. What will he do now?