The Beauty of Your Face

by Sahar Mustafah

  It’s Thursday and Layla Hamad is gone.

  Afaf made the phone call to DCFS on Tuesday morning in the school’s social worker’s office. Then she waited, miserable and worried, watching Layla closely over the next few days as she colored meticulously inside the lines on her worksheet, listened as she echoed the correct answer along with her classmates. The star on her cheek had faded some. Afaf wondered if the little girl knew how much her life was about to change.

  Today Layla’s desk is empty.

  Mrs. Walsh pats Afaf’s shoulder as they sort completed worksheets. On some Afaf has attached bright-colored stickers, a few she’s stamped with Needs Improvement. They slide them into cubbyholes on one wall of the classroom. The students are in art class, bending colorful pipe cleaners into animal shapes and flowers.

  “She’ll be in a safer place, dear,” Mrs. Walsh tells her.

  The school social worker told Afaf yesterday, The consequences seem harsh on a family in these cases, but in retrospect, they’re necessary. Then she dropped her voice. I know there’s a code of silence among certain ethnic groups. You did the right thing, A-faf. Her eyes lingered on Afaf’s hijab.

  Ethnic groups. Code of silence. Such terms instantly evoking images of honor killings and child brides. Is that what the social worker and other staff members think of when they see her? Do they think Layla Hamad is any different than the hundreds of other children in the custody of the state of Illinois?

  And what of her hijab? Do they imagine Afaf’s father or brother, swarthy and dangerous men, had forced it on her? Behind her back do they whisper, Poor A-faf, another oppressed Arabian woman?

  In the end, she is glad she’d been the one to make the call, and not Mrs. Walsh or another staff member. She’s ashamed that she’d nearly confirmed their ignorant assumptions.

  But Afaf still has to face the circle of women.

  6

  SHE CONSIDERS skipping the women’s hadith lecture at the Center tonight. No one else has called since she’d hung up on Sabrine Khalil. The silence feels dangerous. Not a word from Um Zuraib, either. Does she resent Afaf’s involvement, or do they consider it meddling?

  Afaf decides to go and confront the inevitable. Hiding suggests she’s done something wrong. Her call to DCFS was mandated by law. She’d made a choice, hadn’t left it to another staff member to intervene.

  Afaf pulls into the parking lot as the last strokes of orange and pink brush the horizon. November has begun to rob the day of hours. The black alder trees that line the sidewalk around the mosque have grown to their adult size since its construction. Their leaves are now brown.

  The Tempest Prayer Center still takes her breath away. It was built in the image of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem: the golden dome flashes in the daytime and its arched windows glow at night. Like the one in the painting of the old man carrying the holy city. It’s like an ancient relic plopped down in the middle of white suburbia. It faces a main road, brick houses with tidy landscapes behind it.

  Afaf remembers how proud Baba was at the ribbon-cutting ceremony years ago, standing beside the imam and the other men who’d brought him back to life. It had taken much time and patience to overcome the racist bureaucracy of Tempest, where they’d found an affordable plot of land. It was originally zoned for both residential and institutional—a church or recreational center. The attorney hired on behalf of the Center had strenuously pointed out that fact to the town board members who’d protested a “religious center,” despite the presence of a Lutheran church only three blocks away.

  There are two archway entrances: one leads to an enormous prayer room for men; the women go through the other, which takes them down a spiral staircase to the lower level. Slabs of white marble cover the floor. The first level contains a large office where the imam performs al keetab for couples before their wedding, or he ministers to feuding families haggling over ancestral land overseas. Blue geometric flowers pattern the walls and large mosaic windows filter soft light indoors. A recreational building has been added since the original construction, including an indoor basketball court and meeting rooms.

  And more progress followed: a few miles away Nurrideen School, once an old convent, opened its doors with the sponsorship of Ali Abu Nimir, offering families a way to maintain their faith while educating their children.

  But there were also a few steps backward, like the refusal to integrate the sexes at popular community events, or forbidding any discussion of contraception. And now Layla. Silencing her to protect the little girl’s father feels like another antiquated practice that she’d ultimately defied. Afaf hopes the consequences aren’t too harsh.

  In the lower level, she slips off her shoes and places them on a large shelf against one wall. The lecture begins after salat al-maghrib—the sunset prayer. She performs wudu in the communal washroom, greeting other muslimat who crouch beside her on the tiled floor, holding plastic containers, water streaming beneath them to a large drain. A young girl stands with bleached-white towels, smiling with missing teeth.

  Afaf finds a spot next to Kowkab. Her friend tugs at the elastic waistband on the bottom half of her prayer clothes. She looks like a large, unsteady barrel. Most of the women wear prayer clothes that completely conceal their forms, while others attend in long-sleeved abayas with glittering designs.

  “What’s wrong?” her friend whispers.

  Afaf hasn’t told Kowkab what’s happened, though her friend immediately senses something’s wrong. Afaf shakes her head and she squeezes her friend’s hand, attempting a smile.

  Um Zuraib is at the front as usual, seated on a chair because she’s unable to stand for long or get into a prostrate position. There’s a special row designated for her and the elderly women: Um Sajee, the oldest woman in their circle, who’d fled the Israeli forces in 1948 and lived in a refugee camp in Lebanon for thirty years; Um Wahab, whose two sons fled the States after committing coupon fraud at their grocery store; and Um Mohammad, whose husband had given the highest undisclosed sum to the construction of the mosque.

  Afaf wishes Um Zuraib would turn around and see her, give her a reassuring nod. The old woman stares straight ahead, her wrapped head poised in the direction of the loudspeaker from which the imam’s voice will bellow, leading the congregation in prayer.

  Afaf scans the room again, two dozen women readying themselves for worship, their hands folded over their stomachs, right over left. There’s no sign of Sabrine Khalil. Relief washes over Afaf and she tries to relax and focus as the imam recites the opening: Subhanakal-lahumma.

  For a few minutes, Afaf is comforted by the bodies that surround her, their faith emanating each time they raise their hands and kneel on the floor. A sense of clarity floods her brain and tingles all the way to her fingers and toes. By the second rak’a, Afaf breathes deeply, a calm settling deep in her bones. She can momentarily forget her frustrations, let go of the uneasiness she was carrying before she began her salat.

  The first time Afaf prayed within these walls, she could smell the fresh coat of paint. She’d stood between Kowkab and her mother and sisters, Um Zuraib taking her place permanently at the front line. By that time, Afaf had learned to pray on her own and had fasted every day of Ramadan except for a week during her period. Now, as her forehead touches the blue carpet, she’s overcome by that first sense of optimism that had been ignited in her years ago.

  When Afaf approaches Um Zuraib after prayer, her optimism completely dissolves. She searches for understanding in the old woman’s eyes, cataracts clouding the corners. But she finds none.

  “He had planned to meet with the imam,” Um Zuraib informs her.

  “Because he was caught?” Afaf’s cheeks flush hot.

  Um Zuraib ignores her pointed question. “It’s out of our hands now. Layla and her brothers and sisters are in foster care. With amarkan.”

  Not with their own people, is what she means. That they’d been yanked out of their familiar surroundings, as unstable as they were, out
of their mother’s arms, precariously dropped into the homes of people who don’t understand them. What if the women are right? What if she’d sent Layla and her siblings to a worse fate?

  It’s difficult to look into Um Zuraib’s eyes. She doesn’t blink, the kindness gone from her eyes like stars dimming in a night sky. “He was beating them,” Afaf whispers. “I had to call.”

  Um Zuraib kisses her on both cheeks. “You did what you believed was best. Only Allah will judge.” She limps away, a few women greedily vying for her attention, guiding her to a chair for the lecture.

  Afaf sinks to the floor and wraps her arms around her knees. Um Musa begins the lecture with an excerpt from the Holy Prophet’s hadith:

  Whoever keeps secret a shameful deed done by a Muslim, God will grant him His cover on the Day of Judgment.

  7

  MAJEED COMES home for the weekend. He must have sensed Afaf’s misery over the phone on Friday.

  She’s back from morning errands and finds him at the kitchen table with Mama, holding her hand as she smokes her cigarette. This closeness still makes Afaf jealous. She can see how, if only for a short time, Majeed can sweep away the cobwebs of depression hanging so delicately over Mama, which she and Baba have not disturbed. Her own husband and daughter have been an awful disappointment, but her son can still make her smile.

  Majeed hugs Afaf. His hair is cut short and neat. His face is lean, his hazel eyes more mischievous. She tries to picture him with a family one day, a beautiful muslimah at his side, but the image doesn’t fully materialize. His rejection of Islam is mostly quiet and respectful: he lets Baba talk at length about redemption and the blessing of marriage to a woman who will raise his children to be good muslimeen. Majeed only nods, though sometimes Afaf catches him scowling when Baba mentions the sin of alcohol.

  He’s lecturing me? he tells Afaf in private.

  It’s not lecturing, Maj. He knows firsthand how it can destroy you.

  Her brother snickers. A few beers with friends? I don’t buy it, Afaf. Men do far worse than that in the name of religion.

  She’s found she can still be close to Majeed as long as they don’t discuss religion. Afaf recites extra du’aa for her brother at the end of each prayer, hoping he’ll see the path Allah has lit for him. Couldn’t he see how it had transformed his own sister? Was her brother’s memory so short?

  Now Majeed pulls her into his arms, touches a fold in her headscarf. “Look at you, sis! I didn’t think you could do it.”

  She hugs him tightly and he lets her hang on. “Could or would do it?”

  He laughs. “Would, I guess. How does it feel?”

  Afaf pulls back, self-conscious all of a sudden. She can read it on her brother’s face: Majeed think she’s been brainwashed, too, like all the women he believes have been duped into submission to worthless men.

  Mama goes to the stove, sprinkles cumin into a simmering saucepan, though she meant to use allspice. “Ya rubbi!” she snaps. She slams cabinets and clanks dirty dishes in the sink.

  Afaf ignores her noise. “It feels fine. I mean—it was a little weird in the beginning, but I’m getting used to it.” She doesn’t tell him about the sneers and heckles at the gas station, or the uncomfortable, foreboding looks from her colleagues.

  Mama throws down a spoon. It clatters against a plate. “You’re a fool, Afaf. A stupid, stupid girl.” She throws her head back and laughs, trying to light another cigarette with sopping-wet fingers.

  “Mama, come on. Have a seat.” Majeed placates her with a new cigarette, guiding her to a chair. He places it in her mouth and lights it.

  How long has she been like this? he mouths to Afaf.

  She shakes her head. Afaf tries not to resent her brother. Majeed’s been spared the daily challenges of life with Mama—her eruptive anger, sudden and consuming, or her vacuous stare when she doesn’t speak for a whole day. He’d earned his scholarship, had worked hard every day of his education, but none of it changes life at home. Her brother escaped, leaving Afaf behind. Still her mother pines for the ones who are gone—Nada, Majeed—denying her and Baba, the ones who’ve stayed.

  Mama catches their silent exchange. “What are you whispering about me?” She throws her cigarette in the sink. “Do you think I’m stupid? That I don’t see what’s going on? I know more than you’ll ever know!”

  “What do you know?” Afaf counters. Rarely does she engage her mother’s outbursts. She wants to shout that Mama doesn’t have a monopoly on suffering, but Majeed grips her arm.

  Mama stands close to Afaf, her breath stinking of cigarettes and coffee, her body musty. “You think you’re so special now, wearing that thing? Ha! If I wear one on my head will Allah bring Nada back? Will this misery finally end?”

  Afaf is stunned by the mention of her sister and she turns toward Majeed, who looks like he’s been slapped in the face. An invisible presence suddenly fills the kitchen, pressing against Afaf.

  Before either of them can respond, Mama lunges at Afaf, clawing at her headscarf. A pin she’d securely fastened on one side stabs her scalp.

  Majeed pulls Mama off of her and Afaf stumbles backward against the stove, knocking the long handle of the saucepan. Boiling liquid sears her arm.

  “Afaf! Cold water!” her brother commands. He guides her to the kitchen sink and gently rolls up her sleeve. Fortunately, the fabric has absorbed most of the scalding soup, but her arm turns pink.

  Afaf winces, but she refuses to cry as their mother watches, wild-eyed. Majeed firmly holds her elbow under the running water. “Don’t move.”

  Her eyes are trained on Mama, afraid her mother will attack her again. Mama stares vacantly at the mess on the floor, the tomato liquid dripping down the front of the stove. She takes a step toward Afaf and Afaf flinches, alerting Majeed, and he looks up.

  “Mama?” her brother says. It sounds like a question, like she’s someone he no longer recognizes.

  Their mother mumbles something before turning and disappearing into her bedroom. The television goes on, volume raised. Majeed won’t look at Afaf. He’s concentrating hard on her arm, though she can feel his indignation.

  As soon as Mama closes her door, Afaf sobs. The cold water temporarily soothes her burned pores. Her skin still throbs—a patch of blisters has cropped up—but she’s suddenly relieved by this physical attack, like she’d been holding her breath for the last twenty years. Mama has finally struck out at her. Afaf has nothing more to fear.

  Baba comes home with fatayir, special treats for Majeed’s visit. He’s shocked by the scene in the kitchen, Afaf’s brother mopping up the mess on the floor, her arm wrapped in a sheet of paper towels. Only an hour before, Baba had left them in good spirits.

  “Lah, lah, lah.” Baba carefully examines Afaf’s arm and insists they go to the ER. His musbaha dangles from his jacket pocket and she wants to pull it out, to hold on to something to keep her from trembling.

  “It’s fine, Baba. I—elhamdulillah,” Afaf stammers. “Majeed put some ointment on it.”

  “Forgive your mother. She’s not well, habibti.” He places both hands on her shoulders. “Be merciful to others and you will receive mercy. Forgive others and Allah will forgive you.”

  She wants to tell her father to stop preaching to her—that Mama’s the one at fault, the one who’s ruined their lives. Is there a verse in the Quran that speaks about such losses? Has Baba memorized that one, too?

  Afaf drops her head, looks away from Baba’s watering eyes. Despite her anger, she gives silent du’aa on behalf of Mama. She’s doing everything she can to be a good person, and at every turn Mama tries to derail her. Does the loss of a child negate the existence of another? Is Afaf’s life not worthy, too?

  A noise wakes her. It’s like a gurgle, like water down a drain. Afaf turns over in bed, forgetting about her burned arm, immediately wincing in pain. She sits up and smoothes down the edges of the bandage. Her digital alarm clock blinks: four-thirty a.m.

  A sound aga
in. She checks the hallway, holding her arm like a broken wing. It’s dark except for a thin slice of light beneath the bathroom door. She knocks, expecting Baba to answer, though it’s still too early for fajr wudu and prayer. “Hello?”

  That strange gurgle comes through the door. Afaf turns the knob. Mama’s lying in the tub, which is half full with water. She’s completely naked.

  “Mama!” Afaf screams.

  One slender arm dangles out of the tub. There’s an empty bottle of Drāno on the floor. Chunks of vomit float on the surface of the water, along her mother’s splayed legs.

  “Khair inshallah!” Baba pushes Afaf out of the way. “Muntaha! Muntaha! What have you done to yourself?”

  Majeed appears in the doorway. “What the fuck is happening?”

  “Call 911!” Afaf shouts over her shoulder. “Hurry! Baba, help me pull her out!”

  Baba and Afaf hoist Mama out of the tub, and she forgets about the pain in her arm. Though she’s no more than a hundred and twenty pounds, Mama’s body feels bloated and heavy, like a bag of soaked rice. Water streams from her deflated breasts, down her still-flat stomach. Her pubic hair, still dark and full against her pale skin, looks like a bird’s delicate nest. Baba carefully sets her head on the tiled floor and strokes her loose hair. Her arms flop at her sides like a rag doll. He shouts, “Muntaha! Wake up! Wake up, my love!”

  “Mama, open your eyes. Yalla, Mama!” Afaf slaps her mother’s cheeks. A flutter of movement beneath her lids. “Come on, Mama! Wake up! Wake up!”

  Majeed hands her a towel and Afaf covers her up. “They’re on their way,” he says.

  “Yalla, Mama! You need to open your eyes.”

  “Will she be okay?” Majeed’s eyes are wide with the same terror Afaf recognizes from when they were kids that night they heard the detective telling their parents about “a body found” at the old stockyard. Or at the hospital when the police officer suggested that Baba could have died in the crash.