by Trish Doller
He returns with an older lady dressed in an unadorned chestnut-brown dress. Instead of wearing a hijab, she has her gray hair pulled back in a low bun. The men stand to welcome her, and Mr. Elhadad introduces her as his mother, Nazeerah, and explains that her English is limited. As they fall back into conversation, Mr. Elhadad translates and Mom speaks as much Arabic as she can.
Adam takes a seat across from me and I want to ask if this is the grandmother who taught him how to cook, if he prepared any of the food for tonight’s dinner, and if he’s already looking for a new job. But asking him these questions in front of his family feels too intimate. Instead I scoop a bit of the cheese dip onto a cracker and give him a quick smile before looking away.
After a couple rounds of tea, Mr. Elhadad invites us to the dining room for a spread of roasted chicken with potatoes; a salad of marinated green beans, beets, and carrots; and dishes of pickled cucumbers. It’s not fancy food, but it looks and smells delicious. It reminds me of Sunday dinner with Grandma Irene, who serves garlic mashed potatoes and homemade chunky applesauce with her roasted chicken.
“Now,” Mr. Elhadad says to Dad when we’re all settled around the table. “I would like it if you would explain your job to my wife and my mother.” Since my father has never walked away from an opportunity to talk, he speaks at great length about life aboard a tugboat, pausing only to let Mr. Elhadad’s translation catch up. Mom asks Mrs. Elhadad about being a seamstress. Even Nazeerah contributes to the conversation, speaking in Arabic about how she used to work as a maid for a wealthy Cairene family.
“I bet you’ll be glad to let your dad take over the driving again,” Mom says to Adam. “Have you started looking for a new job?”
“I had an interview today at the Nile Ritz-Carlton,” he says, and my heart lifts a little, thinking maybe losing the koshary shop wasn’t too big a setback. Working in the kitchen at the Ritz-Carlton sounds like it might be an improvement. “I begin as a waiter on Saturday.”
Mrs. Elhadad says something and her husband explains that they are proud of him, that a waiter can earn a good income.
“But that’s not your dream.” The words spill out, even though I’d meant for them to stay in. And when I look up from my plate of chicken, seven pairs of eyes—even those of the elder Mrs. Elhadad, who probably didn’t understand what I said—are on me. “I just meant . . . you should be working in a kitchen. You should be cooking.”
“It is a good job.” Adam speaks to the whole table, but I know he’s trying to reassure me. And convince himself. “I can take the metro almost to the front door.”
Mr. Elhadad’s gaze bounces from me to Adam to his wife, and I see the subtle downturn at the corners of her mouth. When she notices I’m watching her, Mrs. Elhadad gives me an awkward smile and offers me the bowl of salad for a second helping. My own parents glance at each other with concerned eyes, and my humiliation level redlines. I blink back tears as I dish a couple more carrots onto my plate, and Dad launches into a story about how, at eighteen, he was fired from waiting tables because he broke too many dishes. I’m pretty sure he made up the story just now to help Adam feel better and that makes it even harder not to cry.
The conversation moves on and I spend the rest of the dinner focused on my food. Taking more when it’s offered, even when I’m full. When Mrs. Elhadad brings out after-dinner coffee, Aya says she has something she wants to show me and I follow her gratefully away from the dining room.
“How embarrassed should I be right now?” I say as she closes her bedroom door. The pale purple walls are covered with pencil sketches and finished colored drawings of hijabi fashion. An ancient-looking sewing machine stands in one corner of the room, while in the other corner is a tall, narrow shelving unit in the corner that is almost completely filled with rolled scarves in every color.
“My family will wonder how you know about my brother’s dreams and perhaps they have guessed he has shared them with you, but on Saturday everything returns to normal,” she says, flopping onto her bed. “Everything will be forgotten.”
Including me?
Her room goes blurry with fresh tears.
“It’s not so bad.” Aya hands me a tissue. “My parents cannot say that Adam must work as your driver, then be angry when he speaks to you.”
“He kissed me.”
“Oh.” She covers her mouth with her hand for a moment, then says, “Was it like a movie?”
I laugh as I wipe my eyes. “Actually, it was.”
Aya is silent for a while, considering. “Maybe that can be enough?”
“Maybe.” I touch one of the drawings on her wall. It’s a picture of the outfit she was wearing at the hospital when I met her. “Adam told me about this. You have so much talent. Why do you want to study engineering when you could be doing this?”
“My family is happy, but there is never a time when we do not struggle,” she says. “I am not like my brother. My dream can wait until I am no longer poor.”
“That’s very practical,” I say, feeling fortunate—yet again—that I don’t have to be practical with my future. Even if I risk it on an anthropology or history degree, I still have a better chance of earning more money in the United States than Aya will in Egypt.
“It’s good to dream,” she says. “But better to have a plan.”
I walk over to her hijab collection and choose one that is the rich, dark blue of Lake Erie in November. My favorite color. Aya takes the fabric from me. “I will show you how to wrap a hijab . . . well, there are many ways to do it, but I will show you one.”
She repositions my bun so it sits at the back, rather than on top, then places the scarf over my head. Aya pins the tails beneath my chin, then drapes one of the tails around my neck, arranging the fabric into neat folds. She brings the other tail over my head, letting it hang down beside my face and pinning it into place so it won’t slip.
Without my hair showing, my identity feels lost and the dark blue fabric makes my face look washed-out. Not like Aya, who looks so beautiful wearing a hijab. I crinkle my nose at the reflection in the mirror. “It’s not me.”
“It takes time to get used to it, and I think such a dark blue is not your color,” Aya says. “I chose to wear the hijab when I was twelve, so I have learned how to wrap it in ways that are good for my face, and darker colors need bolder makeup. We all have bad hijab days sometimes.”
“Is that why not every woman in Egypt wears one?” I ask.
“The choice is personal,” Aya says. “Of course, there are people who believe every woman should cover, but if I decide not to wear my hijab, no one can force me.”
My mind goes back to the women at the airport on my first day in Cairo and it makes more sense now. I still don’t understand why anyone would choose to hide her face, but I guess another woman’s choice is not really my business.
Aya removes the scarf from my head and plaits a few tiny braids into my hair before she does it back up in the topknot.
“Adam told me how you used to braid his hair when you were kids,” I say, rolling the hijab into a neat bundle before putting it back on the shelf.
She sighs. “I have always wished for hair like his. He washes it and it dries into perfect curls, while I must use a curling wand to get the same results. It’s unfair.”
Not wanting to think about Adam’s hair, I change the subject. “We haven’t really had much chance to hang out. I was thinking . . . would you be interested in joining a club with me?”
“What sort of club?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe a sport?”
The Elhadads’ computer is in the main living area, so we use our phones to look up women’s sports teams in Cairo.
“There’s a roller derby league,” I say, and I can picture myself on a flat track, knocking skaters out of my way and having a really awesome derby name like Vivi Section or Abbey Roadkill. The reality, though, is that my strongest roller skating skill is falling down.
Aya shakes her
head. “I am not cool enough for roller derby and I don’t think my parents wish for me to die.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. What about rugby?”
“What is that?”
“Okay, no rugby.”
Finally we discover a recreational women’s soccer team called the Garden City Daffodils, founded by a couple of expatriates—one American, one Australian. According to their website, they compete against teams from the area sporting clubs. Joining this team would be good conditioning for my high school team tryouts in September. And maybe help keep my mind off Adam.
“I can do this,” Aya says. “I would like to do this.”
We fill out the contact form on the team’s website, then hang out in her room until Adam’s fingers drum softly on the door and he tells us to come out for dessert.
CHAPTER 23
Midnight closes in as Adam drives us across the bridge to Manial after an uneventful serving of chocolate layer cake and a heaping of thanks on my mother for her part in saving Mr. Elhadad’s life. Adam stops at our building and it feels final somehow. Especially when Dad hands him a big tip and wishes him good luck with the new job.
“Shokran,” Adam says quietly.
Mom thanks him for keeping me company.
“Afwan,” he says.
There is so much I want to say, but not now, not in front of my parents. I follow them toward the building, but after taking a few steps, I pause and look back. Adam is still there. He smiles and touches his hand to his heart.
Upstairs, standing on the balcony, I send him a text. Are we finished?
I don’t want to be.
Will I see you tomorrow?
Adam doesn’t respond right away, but when I look over the railing, his father’s car is still down there on the street. Finally my phone chimes.
Yes.
“I’m a little concerned about Caroline.” Mom’s voice drifts out onto the balcony from my parents’ bedroom. I step back as she closes the doors for privacy, then creep into the shadow between their room and mine. Her voice is more muffled now, but I can still hear it when she says, “She and Adam . . . well, they seem . . . attracted to each other.”
“That was pretty evident from day one.”
“They’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Mom says. “And when I spoke to Manar about it, she said he has been miserable.”
“Of course he is, Beck,” Dad says. “He’s head over heels for a girl—probably for the first time in his life—and has no idea how to deal. His culture says one thing, but his hormones are singing a completely different, much louder song. And now his access to her is about to get cut off. They’re probably both pretty miserable right now.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why should it?”
“Because the boy isn’t supposed to be spending time with Caroline, let alone developing feelings for her.”
“That’s between Adam and his faith,” my dad says. “Not my business. But what I do know is that he’s a good kid and so is our daughter. She dated Owen for three years, so what’s different now?”
“I don’t want her to lead him astray.”
Dad laughs a little. “He may be Muslim, but he’s still a guy. She isn’t leading him anywhere he isn’t willing to go. But look, Ahmed is back on his feet, I’m here now, and we’ve got that school orientation thing coming up, right? She’ll meet some of her new classmates, and Adam will get her out of his system. Problem solved.”
I slip out of the shadows and into my room, where I lie in the dark for a long time wondering if Dad is right.
• • •
The early morning light is seeping into my room when I receive a text from Adam telling me he’s on his way. I shower and dress in record time, pulling my damp hair into a bun. Mom comes out of her bedroom wearing her pajamas as I’m headed for the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“My driver is coming to pick me up,” I say. “Not sure where we’re going or when we’ll be back, though. Leading Muslim boys astray takes time.”
Her eyebrows arch up. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“When you can overhear it . . . it’s called overhearing.”
“Then you know the context,” she says. “I don’t want to see either of you get hurt, but there is a lot more at stake here for Adam than there is for you. The kind thing to do would be to leave him alone.”
Dad shuffles out of the bedroom, scratching the back of his head. “Why are we all awake right now?”
“Tomorrow Adam starts his new job,” I say to Mom. “And then he’ll have all the time in the world to get me out of his system. Problem solved, right?”
My dad winces as I throw his words back at him. “Listen, Caroline—”
“No.” I hold up a hand to stop him. “You brought me here. You expected me to make the best of it in a strange country. Adam is the best of it and I am one hundred percent done with this conversation.”
I yank open the front door.
“Caroline Elizabeth Kelly, stop right now,” Mom demands, but I walk out, slamming the door behind me.
I hate that my parents and Bahar are on the same team. I hate that being with Adam feels right and wrong at the same time. It can’t be both. Rebellion has never suited me, but my heart and mind are a tangled mess. Still, the elevator is barely past the second floor when I send my parents an apology text. Sorry for being a jerk. Adam and I just need time to talk.
Adam is waiting at the curb. “How are you?”
“I don’t know.”
We don’t talk as the car winds through the streets of the city. I want to ask him what he is thinking, but I’m scared of the answer. There are dark circles under his eyes, as if he didn’t get much sleep, and I wonder what happened at his apartment last night after we left. Adam takes me to our first ahwa, the one in Coptic Cairo, where it is quiet and private.
“I am Muslim.” Adam looks over my shoulder instead of looking me in the eye. “And you are not. You are leaving Cairo in a year and this is my home.”
“That sounds like someone else talking.”
“While I was driving you and your parents home, my whole family came together—aunties, uncles, cousins—and when I returned, they all had opinions to share, very loudly and very late into the night,” he says as the waiter brings tea and karkadeh. “They believe that if I am old enough to be thinking of you in a romantic way, then perhaps it is time for me to be married.”
“What do you believe?”
“I am Muslim.” He rotates his coffee glass one way, then the other. Stalling. He clears his throat. “This is what I meant that first day in the park. I thought—well, I closed my eyes and pretended it would be different for us. There is no future in which we live happily ever after.”
My heart burns and I want him to hurt as badly as I do. “Maybe you should get married. Have a bunch of kids and spend the rest of your life living in the same apartment building as your mother, dreaming about how you might have been a chef.”
My poisoned words hit their mark and pain registers across Adam’s face, except hurting him makes me feel even worse. Especially since I used his culture and hardship against him. Getting married, having kids, and living near his mother isn’t a bad alternative fate at all. It’s a normal Egyptian fate.
Before I can take back the insult, the warmth drains from his eyes and he lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Perhaps instead I should turn my back on my family and faith for a girl who can never be anything but temporary.”
My chest feels torn open and hollowed out as I scoot back my chair. The table wobbles, spilling my drink, and the red liquid cascades over the edge onto the cobblestones. “I’m going home.”
“Caroline, wait.”
Tears burn in my eyes because I still love the way he says my name, but the pain pushes my feet forward. “Go away, Adam.”
“It is a long walk and a hot day. Let me drive you.”
I don’t want to be i
n the same city with him, let alone the same car. “No.”
“Please.” The crack in his voice is all it takes to make me get in the car, but the air is heavy between us. I want to apologize, but all I can think about is how I am a temporary girl. By the time we reach my building, the opportunity feels lost.
As I reach for the door handle, Adam leans across the console and cradles my face with both hands. His kiss is a desperate plea and I let him make it. The second time, I kiss him back, tasting the good-bye on his lips the same way I taste the salt of my tears. But the thought of not having a tomorrow with Adam hurts more than the terrible things we said to each other.
“If I could be more like Magdi . . . ,” he says.
I sniffle and laugh at the same time. “I’m so glad you’re not.”
“Bahebik.”
I open the door. “What does that mean?”
Adam’s smile is sad. “Already you know.”
I pass Masoud for the second time this morning and he holds up his Quran, silently scolding me. My middle finger itches to aim itself in his direction but instead—even though he doesn’t understand a single word—I say, “Save it for someone who cares.”
CHAPTER 24
Mom is dressed for work as I come into the apartment, and when she sees the tears staining my cheeks, she wraps me up tightly in her arms. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say to her shoulder.
“You did the right thing.”
“Please don’t. Not now.”
She kisses my forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
I untangle from her embrace and hide out in my room, crawling beneath the covers, where I cry myself to sleep. Mom is long gone when I wake, and Dad’s sitting on the balcony with his laptop and his Deadpool mug filled with coffee.
“Hey there, Bug,” he says.
When I was about three or four, I invented a game I called Lightning Bug where I’d dance around the room and pretend to flash. Dad would “catch” me in an imaginary jar and after I made a sufficiently sad face, he’d set me free and the game would start over. He took to calling me Lightning Bug and over the years the nickname became abbreviated to Bug.