Love from A to Z(22)

“Adam, I’m so sorry for taking your phone out of your pocket,” Hanna said, holding out the device. “So really sorry.”

I accepted and pocketed it.

Mr. Mellon shook his head. “We’ll go over field trip rules once more when we get back to school, Hanna. I’m severely disappointed.” He turned to me and saw the stapled trip package in disarray in my hands. “Your group is at the Beira antelopes next, Adam.”

“No, Mr. Mellon! Adam said we could go see the elephants!” announced one of the girls.

“Oh no, no, no. You must be looking at the wrong schedule.” Mr. Mellon undid his own package from the clipboard he carried around and flipped through it. “See, right here. The Beira antelope in pavilion five.”

“Right,” I said. “Beira antelope.”

The kids deflated in front of me.

Hanna crossed her arms.

I led the way to pavilion five.

There was only room for exactly one rule breaker in our house.

? ? ?

On the bus ride back to school, I found Zayneb’s number on the volunteers’ info sheet Mr. Mellon had stapled onto our package before we left in the morning.

Hope you had fun.

This is Adam.

I took in the landscape whizzing by. We were on the outskirts of Doha, and it was mostly rocks mingled with sand mingled with short, dry shrubs.

Ha-ha I was just going to text you. I did have fun.

I looked out the window again.

Favorite animal?

At first glance, the scene appeared the same throughout, but subtle color shifts in the rocks and sand made it interesting.

Whales.

Wide open spaces and then the sudden introduction of a tumbleweed.

You saw a whale on the field trip?

Or the jarring appearance of a house surrounded by a concrete wall, same color as the land.

No.

Sorry I thought you meant favorite animal ever. On the trip: macaws.

Even though I kinda didn’t pay attention to them. Those butterflies distracted me.

And sometimes, if you were lucky, when your bus was stopped for a turn, you could see a lizard of significant size moving across the rocks.

I snapped a picture of the lizard and sent it to Zayneb.

Oh wow. My group didn’t get to see THAT on the trip. Let me guess, related to dinosaurs?

I laughed.

It’s a spiny-tailed lizard. Or as we locals call them a dub dub. I literally just took this pic. Out the window.

She didn’t reply for a while, even though her text bubble kept popping up.

Must be something long she was composing.

The way it should be. Animals in the wild. Not caged. I don’t like zoos.

She sent me a picture of the outside through her bus window. I examined it but couldn’t see any animals in it, just flatland. And tons of rocks.

But she was obviously into the environment, maybe even the conservation of it.

Maybe even animal rights.

Hey, tomorrow I’m taking Hanna to a rescue shelter for salukis. Want to come?

Oops. This was the second time I was asking her to go somewhere.

She was going to think I was too much.

I glanced at the sky.

Why did I just feel an instant urge to push send on that text? I’m not impulsive. I’m Adam.

I consider, ponder, reflect, and only then do I make a move—in any aspect of my life.

I leaned my shoulder on the sill, rested my head on the window above it, and closed my eyes.

My movement caused Hanna to jolt beside me, head lolling, eyes flickering open.

I hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep leaning on me. I sat back up and set her head, hair completely in disarray now, on my arm once more.

My phone buzzed.

Sure, I’d love to.

Rescue shelters are so important.

She added a lizard emoji.

I smiled and looked back at the sky. It was clear, without even a tiny wisp of a cloud.

What was so interesting about the desert was this: It was invitingly ponderable.

I took another photo.

? ? ?

Dad led us for Maghrib, Hanna and me on either side of him, our three prayer rugs facing the direction of Mecca, Dad’s sajjada just a bit ahead of ours.

Afterward, he turned to face us. Sitting cross-legged, he said the duas that Hanna was learning out loud, and we, with our heads bent and palms raised, said ameen to them.

“Your turn,” Dad said to Hanna.

She gazed up from the gold hijab she’d carefully wrapped around her head for prayers. It was turban style, with the ends brought down and flung around her neck like a fancy scarf. She had dark sunglasses on—something she insisted helped her focus while praying—and the whole effect was of a very fashionable supplicant to God.

“Thank you for everything You have given us, Allah. Like Adam being back.” She leaned forward and peered at my face to make sure I saw her being grateful. I returned her smile, and she settled back to continue her prayer. “Please, Allah, forgive me for the things I did wrong today, like if I wasn’t aware of it.”

She was repeating the words of the prophetic prayer that Dad had taught her: Forgive us for the wrongs we did, willingly or if we were unaware.

I leaned forward to look at her face so she could see me touch a finger lightly to my pocket, the one holding the phone, tapping it when I had her attention.