In the Language of Miracles

by Rajia Hassib

  “Like it? I love it! It’s a bit expensive, though, don’t you think?”

  Samir wrapped his arms around her protruding belly, rested his chin on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” he assured her. “I told you I’d let you pick the house, and if this is the one you want, this is the one it’ll be.”

  • • •

  They closed on the house thirty days later, partly because he had told Nagla he would, partly because he had loved the house, too, but mainly because Ahmed had told him not to.

  “Are you crazy?” Ahmed had asked. He and Loula had stopped by the apartment, as they often did when they were in town. Loula was in the bedroom, where her two kids played with Hosaam as she and Nagla talked. Samir and Ahmed sat at the kitchen table. Samir, usually embarrassed by their visits, which only reminded him how poorly he was providing for his family, had welcomed this one. He had printed out pictures of the house to show to Ahmed.

  “What do you mean?” Samir said, irritated.

  “For one thing, this house is huge! What do you need such a huge house for?”

  Oh, so you don’t like it because it’s bigger than yours?

  “It’s not too big,” Samir said, smiling. “I didn’t want anything too small or too confining. Nagla will be staying home with the kids for a long while, and I want her to have a house she can enjoy.”

  “She could have enjoyed a house half this size, if you ask me,” Ahmed said, pushing the photos back across the table to Samir, who picked them up, arranged them neatly in a pile, and said nothing.

  “Besides,” Ahmed added, “why don’t you just rent? Give yourself time to see if you’ll be able to set up your practice there. Also, give yourself time to save up, you know, before you spend every last penny you have on that house.”

  “I’ve already found a good place to set up my practice. And I’m not spending every last penny,” Samir said through his teeth.

  “It’s your funeral,” Ahmed said, shrugging.

  Samir, blushing to his ears, glared at him. Wait and see, he thought. Just wait and see.

  • • •

  For months before they moved in, Samir and Nagla spent every weekend renovating and painting, tearing out old kitchen cabinets and countertops and replacing them with new ones. As they worked, Hosaam would trot from room to room, running in the freedom the large house afforded, while a newborn Khaled napped in his car seat or, later, sat in his stroller, watching as his parents worked. Whenever Samir would finish one room, Nagla would take it over, painting with all the windows open. He loved to see the smile on her face as she pulled her roller down each wall as if her stroke imprinted every section that she touched with magical protection and promises of prosperity. Once done, she would hang curtains, move in their belongings a little bit at a time, clean and organize and then reorganize as she learned the house’s every little nook and cranny.

  In Egypt, they had never done manual work, mainly because labor was so cheap it was easier to hire professionals. But here, in New Jersey, Samir had learned that homeowners did all the renovating themselves. He had listened to his colleagues’ conversations about remodeling with a newfound fascination. There was pride in their talk, a sort of boastfulness inherent in ownership, in the fact that no landlady would walk up and tell them what they could and could not do.

  Samir had assumed he would learn renovating just as he learned anything else: from books. When he found himself standing in the middle of a half-demolished kitchen, however, he realized the amount of information he did not know was overwhelming. What was he supposed to do first, put in the new cabinets or the new tile? Did he have to replace entire cabinets, or just the cabinet doors? If he wanted to tear the cabinets down, how was he supposed to do it without damaging the walls? He felt overwhelmed. Suspicious by nature, he was afraid to hire contractors to finish a job he had started. He needed help, he knew. But he knew no one who could help him. More accurately, he knew no one he was willing to ask.

  Ehsan would have said it was providence, because help did come his way, in the form of a six-foot blond young man with broad shoulders and an even broader smile. He literally stepped across their adjoining backyards and into Samir’s kitchen one day, introduced himself, and within an hour was giving Samir much-appreciated advice. The young man was their new neighbor, Jim Bradstreet, and he was going to help him remodel the entire kitchen.

  “Are you sure, Samir?” Nagla had asked when he later told her the news. “That’s a lot of work! You really think he would want to help?”

  “Of course he would! He’s the one who offered. He literally was on his knees peering under the countertops before I even got his name!”

  “But are you sure he was not just offering out of politeness?”

  “This is not Egypt, Nagla,” Samir said, waving an impatient hand. He was sitting on a stool in the apartment’s kitchen as Nagla prepared dinner. “It’s not like home; people here don’t make offers like that unless they really mean it. And besides, it’s still up to him. If he wants to, he’ll show up. If not, he won’t.”

  The following weekend, Samir took Nagla and the kids to Summerset. Only half an hour after their arrival, Jim stepped from his backyard into theirs. Samir, smiling broadly, looked at Nagla. I told you so. Jim was followed by a woman and a little girl close to Hosaam’s age with white-blond curls that glittered in the sun. She ran right up to Hosaam and handed him a stuffed bunny with a blue bow tied around its neck. Hosaam took it, and both kids darted across the yard, following a white butterfly that the girl had spotted and pointed out to Hosaam.

  Cynthia, a chubby brunette, had brought a plate of pastries. She handed them to Nagla.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

  Nagla looked at the gift and smiled, murmuring thanks. She turned around to walk into the kitchen, realized the countertops had been removed, and stopped in place, pastries in hand.

  “What was I thinking!” Cynthia said, laughing. “You don’t even have a kitchen to eat them in. Come over to our place; I’ll put on some coffee.”

  “I can’t,” Nagla said, looking at Samir.

  “Of course you can!” Samir said, giving her an encouraging look.

  “But, I mean, I don’t want to be heavy,” Nagla said.

  Cynthia’s brows scrunched together.

  “She means she doesn’t want to intrude,” Samir said. Nagla blushed, and Samir strapped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s difficult to translate from Arabic, sometimes.”

  “At least you can speak two languages!” Cynthia said. “The most I can say is no hablo español!”

  “Seriously,” Jim said. “Just go spend some time with her. It’ll keep her out of our hair. She’s such a chatterbox.”

  “I am,” Cynthia admitted. She nodded at Hosaam and Natalie racing around the yard. “Besides, it’ll be good for the kids.”

  Samir watched Nagla push Khaled’s stroller across the lawn, nodding as Cynthia spoke to her.

  It was at that exact moment that he felt the pieces of his life falling into place at last. As he and Jim walked inside to construct his new kitchen, Samir knew he was building not just a house, but his home, surrounded by good American neighbors, where his children would flourish and he and Nagla would grow old together.

  3

  ENGLISH: If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

  Saying

  ARABIC: Whoever believes in Allah and the Last Day, let him speak benevolently or remain silent.

  Saying of the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon his soul

  Khaled could not sleep. For close to two hours he fiddled on Facebook, trying to block out the whispers seeping through the wall at the head of his bed, Ehsan’s voice distinguishable from Fatima’s, the words muffled and incomprehensible yet audible still. His sister and grandmother were the only two capable of discussing today’s events—what were they saying? He doubted his parents would talk tonight. He didn’t check to see if his father had event
ually joined his mother in their bedroom.

  On his nightstand, his phone beeped, signaling a text message—doubtless from Garrett, the only one who would text him that late. Garrett’s message showed a picture of the flyer.

  Did you see this?

  Yes, Khaled texted back.

  This Sunday.

  Yes.

  What will you do?

  Khaled thought of possible answers to this question: Get out of town, stay in hiding, watch a Star Wars marathon. Instead, he typed, Dad wants to go.

  WTF? Why?

  Wants to give a speech.

  Bad idea.

  I know.

  Man. Your dad. Should be banned from contact with public.

  Khaled sighed, put the phone down. Of course Garrett was right. Ever since Cynthia had left, Khaled had been wondering which was worse: walking into that service knowing that nobody wanted them there, or watching his father actually get up and address the crowd.

  Samir had a track record of unfortunate public announcements. A year earlier, he had spoken to the reporters who showed up on their doorstep on the heels of the police officers who came to talk to his parents. Khaled had let the officers in and had watched as one of them walked into the kitchen, where Nagla, towel in hand, raced toward him, her face blanching even before he spoke. She listened, intent, her eyes searching his face, and then she quietly lowered herself to her knees by the foot of the kitchen table, the towel in her lap, as if expecting a toddler to rush into her embrace. As the officer stooped down to talk to her, tears streamed down her cheeks, but her face remained expressionless, showing signs of only a mild surprise, a puzzled look that reminded Khaled of the way his mother sometimes stared at people who spoke too fast for her to catch up. He wondered whether she needed him to translate for her, whether the officer’s English, like so many others’, was beyond her grasp. But she did not. She had understood.

  Standing in a corner, a terrified Fatima grasping his arm and sobbing, Khaled saw his father thunder down the stairs, almost tackling the officers, speaking so fast they barely had time to answer his questions. The other officer, the one who had stood in silence and looked around, grabbed Samir by the elbow and led him out of the kitchen and into the living room. Samir’s questions spilled out in a mad rush. Where did it happen? Were there any witnesses? Did they check the surveillance tapes yet? Maybe someone put that thing in Hosaam’s hand afterward. And how did Hosaam get to the park? He didn’t have his car. Samir pulled at the officer’s arm, wanting to lead him to the garage to show him, to prove to him that Hosaam did not have his car. Yes, he understood that Hosaam was dead, and Natalie, too, but how could they have found them in the park if Hosaam didn’t have his car?

  Khaled didn’t pay attention to the reporters until later in the day, when his father left with a couple of officers, his departure accompanied by a plethora of shouted questions and clicking cameras. Khaled stayed in the living room, watching the reporters through the parted blinds as they set up camp across the street, cameras dangling from their necks and poised on their shoulders, lenses glimmering in the scorching sun. He did not know what else to do. His house had suddenly become alien. The police had evicted him from his room—Hosaam’s room—as they rummaged through it. His mother, still sobbing in her bedroom, was in the care of Fatima, Aunt Ameena, and a couple of other ladies from the mosque, who had rushed to the house as soon as they had heard the news. He felt he should be with someone—but with whom? There was no one to be with.

  He knew his father had returned when he saw the reporters look up the street in unison. Stepping out of the police car, Samir ignored their shouted questions as he walked up to his front door. Khaled waited on the other side of the door for his father to get in. He did not. Khaled walked up to the door, slowly opening it, and saw his father’s back as he walked away from him and into the throng of the reporters, saw him lift one hand up, silencing all questions, and then heard him speak.

  What he said made the eleven o’clock news as well as the front page of the local newspaper. Bud Murphy, one of Khaled’s high school classmates, uploaded a file of Samir’s speech to Khaled’s Facebook wall. Khaled watched only once as Samir urged the reporters not to come to any rash conclusions, not to publish any accusations until the police uncovered the truth. The whole thing was a terrible misunderstanding. He knew what they were thinking, what they were preparing to report, especially with victims so young, but he begged them not to condemn his son. Especially since he had heard someone had driven by the two kids as they sat in the park, had tried to pull Natalie into his car, and, when Hosaam came to her rescue, he had—well, everyone knew what happened next. No, he could not tell them who his source was. But he was sure Hosaam was as much a victim as Natalie. One day, he had begged them. Just wait one day before printing unsupported allegations so the truth could come out.

  What came out the following morning was the police statement the sheriff issued after watching the tapes recovered from surveillance cameras that monitored the Summerset Park Visitors’ Center. Ultimately Samir could not argue with that evidence. Instead, he sank down on one end of the sofa, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

  That day the reporters returned. Khaled watched from his bedroom as they again hovered at the edge of the yard, quietly waiting. Soon their cameras were clicking as they barked questions. Below his window Khaled saw Samir make his way to the reporters. His statement, again posted to Khaled’s Facebook wall by Bud Murphy, was even longer than the previous day’s. Samir was shocked, dumbfounded. He had no idea how something like that could have happened. Hosaam and Natalie had been friends since they were both toddlers. The Bradstreets were their closest friends. No, he was not aware of any mental problems his son might have been suffering. No, Hosaam was not a college student. He was going to go to college, of course, but he had decided to take a year off first. Yes, he had been speaking to his son, regularly, of course. Yes, Hosaam had still been living with his parents. They were very sorry. They were very, very sorry. He wanted people to know that he and his wife had not known, had not imagined . . . if there was anything they could have done to change things. If only they could . . . they were truly sorry. Khaled watched the footage of this statement on Facebook, read the forty-three comments left by his numerous Facebook friends and acquaintances, and then closed his Facebook account for good.

  On the following day, the reporters showed up again. Samir spent the morning pacing the living room, occasionally parting the blinds to scowl at them. Fatima convinced her mother to get out of bed and walk down to the living room. There Khaled’s sister sat next to their mother, coaxing her to eat a cheese sandwich and to sip tea with milk and honey. Nagla did not seem to hear Fatima speak. Khaled, sitting in an armchair a few feet away, watched as Nagla sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, her eyes relentlessly watching Samir’s every move. She had not slept since it happened, he knew, and her eyes were puffy, the hollows underneath them ashen. When Samir finally stopped pacing, he walked up to his family and explained, in short, hesitant sentences, that he felt he had to issue another statement to clarify things.

  “Clarify what?” Nagla asked.

  “Tell them we had nothing to do with this. Tell them he’s really not . . . was not a bad kid.” He stood straight, looking down at Nagla, and, were it not for his lower lip trembling, Khaled would have thought he was issuing a simple statement: We should eat at Olive Garden tonight.

  Nagla got up slowly, took a few steps toward her husband, and started rapidly hissing at him. Her voice low at first, she talked so fast, Khaled was hardly able to catch up, his Arabic as slippery as his mother’s English. He knew she was saying something about Samir’s mixed-up priorities, about how he cared more about what people thought of him than he did about his own son who had just— Samir tried to talk back, but every time Nagla’s voice grew louder as she inched so close to him, she had to look up to maintain eye contact with her husband. Khaled, going back and forth between watchin
g his parents fight and watching Fatima watch them, did not have time to decide what to do before they all heard a shuffle outside their front door. Samir and Nagla fell silent.

  Khaled got up and walked to the window. Peering between the edge of the blinds and the glass, he saw a young reporter in a yellow blouse, black skirt, and four-inch yellow heels standing at their front door. She had her back turned to the house and was motioning to her cameraman to come closer, apparently trying to shoot a segment right there on their doorstep. Nagla saw her and, before any of them could stop her, she rushed to the door and opened it wide. The reporter barely had time to turn around before Nagla lunged at her, grabbed her by the arm, and screamed at her in Arabic.

  “Ayzeen menena eih? Mesh kefayah el ehna feih?”

  The reporter started screaming. Samir, Khaled, and Fatima all rushed outside. Nagla dragged the reporter into the front yard, still grasping her arm as the reporter frantically tried to free herself from Nagla’s grip. Samir got to Nagla first and wrapped his arms around her, constricting her movement, while Khaled started prying open her fingers to release the reporter. She did, finally, but the release was so sudden that the reporter took a few hurried steps back, got her shoe stuck in the dry, cracked mud, stumbled, and fell. When Fatima made it to her, trying to help her up, the reporter, still screaming, pushed her back, knocking her down as well. Fatima got up and hurried inside while her father and brother dragged Nagla in, still yelling. By then the reporter’s cameraman had made it to his colleague and helped her up. When the family was inside, before closing the door, Khaled took one more look and saw the reporters snapping pictures, both of their house and of the Bradstreets’ next door. Cynthia Bradstreet was standing in her doorway, arms crossed, watching the commotion. He slammed the door shut.