They reach the great boulders of Mount Arafat, a magnificent pinnacle swarmed by pilgrims like ants on an anthill. The younger and healthier climb its peak with ease, the elderly and disabled repent at its base.
She prays and begs for forgiveness, forgetting her exhaustion. Fear tugs at her spirit—how will she ever be able to make amends for every wrong she’s committed? Could she have been a better sister to Majeed? Might she have been of greater comfort to her parents, especially Mama? Had she done enough for every child she’s taught? What unseen injury had she inflicted upon others, consumed by bouts of vanity?
The peak of the mountain is blurred by the sun and she can only see undefined forms—are they angels?—coating its slopes. She prays that the Lord will give her the strength and fortitude to be a good Muslim. She clings to a new sense of transcendence, this knowledge that she’s more than merely encased in a physical body.
Afaf looks over at Bilal, his eyes closed, hands raised to the sky, lips moving silently. She remembers the story of Adam and Eve and is grateful for Bilal. They are two broken people whose losses somehow made them whole.
They move on to Muzdalifah. The traffic of bodies is overwhelming. The three of them are relieved to have fulfilled the greatest obligation on their route. They head toward an open area where they’ll collect stones to cast at three pillars representing the devil that thrice tempted Abraham.
Bilal signals that Baba needs to rest and they make their way to the side of the road, which is still dense with bodies. Water basins and portable toilets are erected along the path.
She wipes the sweat from her forehead, gulps water from her plastic canteen, then gargles and spits it in a direction away from the throng.
Bilal is on one knee, facing her father. “What is it, Uncle?” Afaf hurries to Baba’s side.
Her father’s face is ashen, his eyes rolling back in his lids. Baba clutches his chest with one hand. “I can’t breathe,” he wheezes. “I can’t breathe.”
She falls to her knees and grabs his other hand. “Hold on, Baba! Let’s get you out of the sun.”
Time suddenly speeds up as Baba releases a gasp and his hands go limp.
“Baba, no. Please, hold on, Baba!” Afaf cries. She waves her arms for help. The pilgrims keep moving, eyes straight ahead or toward the sky. From a distance, she must look like she’s praying, too, as she wildly throws her arms up. “Please help us!” she shouts in Arabic. “In the name of God, help us!”
Bilal checks Baba’s pulse. He presses two fingers on Baba’s neck, then spreads his hand over her father’s head and says a prayer.
She clutches Baba’s hands—hands that held her face, prayed over her sons, balanced his oud. They are lifeless. “No! Please! No!” she screams, but no one hears her above the pelting of stones, thousands of pilgrims striking the devil from their paths.
4
BABA IS buried in Jannat al-Baqi, where the close relatives and companions of Prophet Muhammad are buried in the city of Medina. It is a desolate place, plundered and rebuilt over the centuries. Rocks designate the graves in the sand, so that it looks like a weatherworn beach.
The dead are laid to rest quickly—no ostentation or pageantry, no bouquets of flowers or wreaths. Afaf is asked if she’d like to repatriate the body, to carry it home to the States. But she declines. She knows Baba would want to be buried in this holy place. And she knows she’ll never return to read Al-Fatiha over Baba’s grave. She’ll have to pray for him a continent away.
According to the Saudi imam who performed the funeral rites, they’ve fulfilled hajj, exempted from the last duties if they pay for a sacrificial slaughter at Eid. Baba had held on until Mount Arafat. His final gesture of love.
Her eyes are raw and sore from crying, her muscles atrophy in misery. It’s difficult to sit up and hard to sleep for long periods. She’s staggered by how fierce this grief is, how it levels her body. Nausea comes in waves and she retches bitter bile in the toilet. How can one accomplish any ceremonious task—preparing the body, praying over it, burying it—when one can barely stand?
Bilal tries to feed her at the hotel, but Afaf can’t keep anything down. He brings her a tangy addas soup, tearing bits of bread for her to chew between spoonfuls. She remembers when Khalti Nesreen prepared the same soup for Mama when Nada disappeared. Had it also tasted like death?
A woman in a black hijab comes to the room. She doesn’t appear to be Arab, her eyes disarmingly wide and black as onyx, her skin a yellowish copper. When she speaks, she confirms she’s a migrant hotel worker.
“Salaam.” She holds up clean sheets.
Afaf nods. “Salaam,” she croaks, surprised at the sound of her voice. She realizes she hasn’t said much in the last twenty-four hours. Or has it been longer? Once again, time warps. She can’t tell if it’s day or night until the housekeeper draws the blinds and sunlight pours into the room. Afaf vaguely recalls Bilal leaving for a while, assuring her that he would return with more food. When had she eaten the soup?
Afaf struggles out of the bed, making way for the housekeeper. Her head feels light and hollow, like a doll’s, then becomes heavy with fatigue. As soon as she stands, her legs give way beneath her and she crumples to the floor.
“Miss, are you all right?” The housekeeper is at her side, crouched down beside Afaf, holding her arm.
“I’ll be fine.” She tries to lift herself up, but it’s no use. Baba’s gone. Nothing’s going to change that, even in this miraculous place. Afaf simply has no energy to move on.
“My father died,” she tells the housekeeper in English.
The housekeeper seems to comprehend—or perhaps she’s familiar with this kind of anguish. She guides Afaf’s head to her chest and steadies Afaf’s trembling body. Afaf presses against her small breasts as the woman hums a tune.
Afaf folds herself into this stranger who smells of dried sage leaves and lemons, wishing she were Mama.
It is Majeed’s face she sees—the only face among the crowd at O’Hare International Airport. Families flock around their loved ones, welcoming them home with bouquets of flowers and new babies that pass from one pair of outstretched arms to another. Afaf is only aware of her brother waiting at the end of the gate, every other sound a far-off echo of happiness. Bilal pushes the luggage carrier ahead of her, glancing over his shoulder as though she might disappear.
The path seems interminable ahead of her and passengers whisk past, eager to reach the end. At last, she is in Majeed’s arms.
“Afaf, I’m sorry. I—” His body heaves against her and she holds him close, muffling his sobs.
“He loved you so much, Maj. He was so proud of you.”
They stand clinging to each other a long time until Bilal urges them on.
5
THE CENTER holds a special azza for Baba. The men and women gather in separate quarters of the mosque to mourn, the imam’s voice coming through loudspeakers from the corner of the low ceiling. He’s a young man from Yemen, has taken the place of the retired Abu Nabeel. His beard, red like rust, and his short height offer a disarming countenance without diminishing his authority among the congregation.
“Hold your tears,” the imam implores, a twang in his Arabic accent. “For they only torment the soul of the deceased, keep him from a peaceful eternal rest.”
The women bob their heads, draped in black, assenting as they dab their eyes and blow their noses into their tissues.
If Baba had passed away in Illinois, his body would lay in repose at Hammond Funeral Home, owned and operated by a nondenominational family. For years, they’ve permitted muslimeen to prepare the body of their beloved themselves, to pray over their souls and shroud them in white. No embalming, no delay. Who might have performed these duties for Baba here? Majeed? Even now her brother looks lost among the men, sitting beside her husband in a close-fitting black suit and dark blue tie. Bilal guides him through the rituals, instructs him what to say when mourners offer their condolences. Majeed even joined
the funeral prayer, following Bilal’s movements. Afaf feels an incredible tenderness for her brother. The dilapidated second floor of the Islamic Center of Greater Chicago flashes back to her, a teenage Majeed wedged between Baba and a stranger as they prayed, she standing beside Kowkab, both out of place. Perhaps Majeed might have found some solace in washing their father’s body, tracing the scars from Baba’s crash, pressing the calluses of Baba’s fingertips from strumming his oud all those years.
Could Majeed finally forgive Baba? Had she done the same for Mama? Their mother’s been calling, and Majeed fields the calls. Afaf can’t speak to her—not yet. To communicate Baba’s death—to try to articulate her grief—over a telephone feels sacrilegious. A part of her hoped Mama would fly back to the States to mourn with her children. To offer her physical body to Afaf. She didn’t need words, just the hollow space between her mother’s neck and shoulder, where Afaf could lay her head. It is an unfamiliar place—one she desperately needs. Had Majeed craved the same from Baba? Her heart swells with sadness.
In the women’s quarters, Kowkab hovers over Afaf during the times when she and Esma are not seeing to trays of unsweetened coffee and pressed dates. That morning her friend gave her a Valium to calm her trembling hands, to still her perpetual tears.
“You’re surrounded by love here,” Kowkab whispers in her ear before jetting away to greet a small group of women. Folding chairs have been positioned in a horseshoe shape, Afaf seated at the top of the arch.
Mrs. Parker and Ashanti hug her at the same time, their tangerine scents comforting her. She whispers to them, “My father loved Mr. Parker.”
They nod, sniffling and wiping their tears. They hug her again and hand her a basket wrapped full of organic tea and biscuits.
Khalti Nesreen and Ammo Yahya have arrived from Kenosha. Her aunt’s shoulders are slightly stooped, her slender frame, like Mama’s, carries a thin ribbon of fat around her waist. Her hair is cut neatly into a graying bob. Afaf wonders when her aunt had aged so much.
“Wallahi I loved your father, habibti,” Khalti Nesreen tells her, gripping both of Afaf’s hands as if she’s trying to convince her. “He had his flaws, but he had a big heart. Allah yarhamo.” She sniffles into a crumpled tissue. Still, Baba would always be the man who had failed her sister.
Someone wheels over Um Zuraib, her body shrunken like a snail forced out of its shell. Afaf remembers meeting her for the first time when Um Zuraib pressed Afaf into her enormous bosom and she’d felt safe there. Afaf leans down to embrace her. Her sunken cheeks feel like paper, her wrinkled hands cold and small. As with Khalti Nesreen, Afaf startles at the old woman before her, her face swallowed up by a black headscarf. Has she, too, been aging so quickly?
“Your father did you the greatest deed by turning you to Islam,” Um Zuraib says.
Afaf nods, tears welling up again. “Yislim deenak wa emanak. Thank you, Um Zuraib.” Things never quite returned to normal after their falling-out those years ago. Afaf had heard through the circle of women that Layla Hamad, the little girl with the star-shaped bruise, was eventually reunited with her mother, who’d stayed married to her abusive husband. They moved away. Layla would be sixteen years old now. Had that been the worst she’d been through in her life to this point? Or did Layla now feel as worthless as Afaf did at that age? Did she rely on the irreverent hands of white boys to remind her she was alive?
Kowkab is by her side again. “How’re you holding up, habibti?” She places a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand, making sure Afaf has grabbed hold of it before Kowkab peels her fingers away.
“Fine, fine.” Afaf blows her nose and settles back into her folding chair. She’s cold, but feels strangely calm. The Valium slowly stems the sadness. At least for a little while.
One by one, the women approach her with their condolences. She’s too tired to stand and receive them; instead, she lets each one lean down to offer a kiss on each cheek. Some who knew Baba well relate times he’d been generous to them; others offer polite sentiments about someone they’d only seen around the masjid and to whom they’d never spoken. The same words: Your father was such a decent man.
The line is never-ending. Kowkab winks at Afaf to be patient. She wants to go home, gather her sons in her arms, slip under the covers. Her body craves sleep, though it hasn’t come since they returned home.
A woman steps up and lingers for a moment as though uncertain whether to greet her or move on without saying a word. The other mourners wait behind her. Her headscarf is ill-fitting, and she tugs at the loose fabric on her forehead, trying to capture a few curly strands of auburn hair that have escaped. She’s wearing a puffy short coat, conspicuously out of place among the weeping mourners.
Afaf holds out her hand, prompting the stranger to speak.
“I’m—I’m so sorry for your loss,” she finally blurts.
There’s something strangely familiar about this woman. Afaf looks more closely. “Who are you?”
The woman shakes her head, glancing behind her. The line extends to a dozen women. “It’s me, Afaf.” She says her name, and it echoes from the past like the strings of Baba’s oud, like a song she hasn’t heard for a long time.
“Nada.”
Her sister nods, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. To come like this.”
Afaf doesn’t say any more. She stands and they fall against each other like they’re bracing against strong winds. A hundred questions spring to Afaf’s lips.
“How did you—where have you—?”
Nada nods, holds both of her hands. “We have so much to talk about,” her sister tells her.
New tears surge, and Kowkab hurries over. “My sister . . . she . . .” Afaf cannot summon words. Kowkab’s face breaks with understanding and her friend embraces Nada.
“My address,” Afaf manages to say to Kowkab, who nods and recites Afaf’s home address as Nada quickly jots it down on a folded envelope she’s pulled from her purse. “Come to the house tonight,” she tells her sister. Behind Nada, the line of women has doubled. Afaf must fulfill her obligation, receive each and every muslimah who wishes her father eternal salvation.
Nada nods, squeezes Afaf’s hand before another woman quickly takes her sister’s place, hugging Afaf close, telling her how much Baba was like a father to her.
6
AFAF PACES back and forth in the kitchen, glancing at the clock on the wall.
It’s like a dream.
Nada is back.
Nada is alive.
Afaf trembles with this extraordinary truth. She’s filled with something she can’t quite name—is it relief, anger? It presses against her being.
Majeed emerges from the basement. He’s changed from his suit to an old college sweatshirt. He’s been sleeping in the spare room. Bilal insisted her brother stay with them, though he’d already made reservations at a Holiday Inn a few miles outside of Tempest. In the past Majeed wouldn’t have relented, fiercely clasping to his privacy on short business trips to Chicago. It hadn’t taken much convincing this time; she and Majeed are all they have now.
And Nada.
“What if she changes her mind?” Majeed’s face is strained, but Afaf catches a flicker of hope at the prospect of Nada disappearing again. It would be easier if Nada were dead—he won’t admit it, but Afaf knows her brother, how difficult it has been for him to grasp the complexities of life. For him, Baba was a drunk and a cheater; Mama an isolated, grief-stricken mother. Nada’s reappearance forces them to contend with an unwieldy past and their uncertain future.
“She’s comes this far, Maj. She’ll be here.” In each other’s presence, neither one has been able to utter their sister’s name, as though it might unleash a curse, breaking the spell of avoidance that had long been spun over their family.
“Seems a little late,” Majeed mutters. He runs his fingers through his thick hair. Each time Afaf sees him, more gray tinges his temples, runs through his crown.
She understands his
anger; her own threatens to break the surface. But beneath that is a deep well of longing. After all these years she still wants her sister back.
Bilal enters the kitchen, lightly touches Afaf’s shoulder. “The boys are finally sleeping.”
He can sense the tension between the siblings. “Have either of you eaten? Majeed?”
“Thanks. I’m fine.” Her brother heads to the family room, sinks into a recliner.
Afaf prepares a tray of teacups, opens a tin of Pirouette wafers from the Parkers’ basket. Years ago, Baba would bring them home from the arrabi grocer; she and Majeed loved to crunch down the rolled wafer straws to their fingertips when they were kids, racing to see who could finish first.
“What time will your sister be here?” Bilal asks.
Your sister. How do the three of them fit back into each other?
The digital clock on the microwave shows ten-thirty p.m. “Soon,” Afaf says. She wonders where Nada is staying. Should she extend her an invitation to stay with them? How many times had she done the same for other guests? This is her own sister. She, Nada, and Majeed under the same roof again.
Bilal hugs her close. “And you?” he whispers in Afaf’s ear. “How are you handling all of this?”
“Elhamdulillah,” she automatically answers. How easy it is to revert to that word, despite the tumult lashing inside her heart. Since Baba’s death, her faith feels fragmented, like the seams of a well-worn coat coming undone, no longer able to shield her from the bitter cold. She could always shroud herself in Islam, in the trust she has in Allah to see her through anything. But, with Baba gone, that sense of transcendence at hajj is gone. She dabs her wet eyes with the hem of her billowing sleeve, before tears fall onto her husband’s shoulder. Perhaps this is Allah’s plan, His strange magnificence snatching Baba from her and offering Nada.
Afaf pulls away from Bilal and walks to the foyer. She turns around, taking in the home she’s made with Bilal. Thirty-five hundred square feet, three bedrooms, four bathrooms, a finished basement. They’ve done well for themselves. Their sons will never go without. What will Nada think of the life she’s made? Does she remember where they began in the old apartment on Fairfield Avenue? Living paycheck to paycheck, Baba taking the bus to the factory, Mama serving leftovers until the pots were bare.
The Beauty of Your Face Page 19