Love from A to Z(23)

“And the things I did willingly, too. Please, Allah, make Mr. Mellon nicer. As nice as the way his name sounds. Melons are one of my all-time favorite foods, so I thought he was going to be my favorite teacher, too.”

“Hanna,” Dad said.

Hanna sighed and took off her sunglasses. She placed them in front of her on the rug and continued. “Please, God, forgive me for that conflict of interest I just did. I was unaware for a moment that I shouldn’t talk about any teachers, because Dad’s their boss.”

“Hanna, your personal prayer of want?” Dad prompted. “You can say it out loud or in your heart.”

Hanna looked ahead, way beyond Dad, onto the walls of his study, and paused for a long moment.

Then she announced, “I want to say it out loud.”

“We’ve been working on developing our reliance on God for wants and needs,” Dad said to me. “She’s getting it. I’m proud of her.”

“Please, Allah, I want to see the jar with the house and backyard that Adam and Mom made together. One year before I was born. The one I never saw. Adam said it was lost. But You can find it because you can just say ‘BE!’ and it is. You are the most merciful of all. Ameen.” She lifted her palms, wiped her hands over her face like Dad always did, then quickly stood up, picking up her sunglasses and her prayer rug to fold it and put it away in one continuous action. She unraveled her turban on the way to the spiral staircase, just outside the family room.

I stayed sitting, saying my own duas, reluctant to look up at Dad.

When I finally did, his head remained bent over his upturned palms, but I could tell he was crying.





ODDITY: PHOTOS TOO


As I folded my own prayer rug, I saw what Hanna had seen when she’d looked up after prayer.

On the wall behind Dad’s head was the photo of Mom sitting on a swing. In our backyard in Ottawa.

The same photo Hanna had clutched so tight yesterday while I shared the story of Mom and the jar with her.

Reminders of loved ones, of love, in words, in picture form, were supposed to be good. . . .

Anyway. At least now I know I can’t even bring up anything with Dad, my diagnosis, anything, until after Tuesday, the anniversary of Mom’s passing.

Spring break goes like this. Solemn at first, and then, after the anniversary, as Dad remembered us, Hanna and me, he would get chipper, eager to do things together as a family.

I’ll just wait for him to be ready for my news.

Lying in bed, I looked at the photo of Mom, the same one of her on the swing. I brought it into my room so Hanna wouldn’t see it and remember the jar again.

Mom looked like she agreed that both of these decisions of mine were the right course: stop Hanna from thinking about the jar and put Dad off learning I have the same disease Mom had.





ZAYNEB


MONDAY, MARCH 11


ODDITY: TRAUMA


EXHIBIT A: MY ANKLE, THE right one, throbbing with trauma as I sat outside Auntie Nandy’s building waiting for an Uber.

An Uber to take me to the dogs that Google showed me when I searched “saluki.”

Dogs.

I had initially thought they were lizards.

When I said yes to going with Adam to the saluki shelter, I’d pictured sad lizards. Sad lizards being bottle-fed, actually.

Like the desert lizard he’d sent me a picture of on the bus ride yesterday. The dinosaurish dub dub who looked like he minded his own business, unlike dogs, who wanted to know everyone’s business.

I felt the phantom stitches ache on my right ankle. So it was true what they said about old war wounds. How they flare up now and then.

But I was bitten ten years ago.

Trauma.

I lowered my phone. What was I going to do?

I mean, the dogs that turned up in a saluki image search were sort of nice and kind-looking, with their long, pointy, slightly pretty faces sticking out of the middle of long parted hair.

But then there were some pictures where their mouths were open, sharp teeth ready.

I shuddered and tapped a photo of a kind-looking saluki to enlarge it.

Maybe if I imagined this dog’s face everywhere at the shelter, I could get through the experience intact.

Without revealing to anyone—well, to Adam—that I was terrified.

I was supposed to let things unfold, not let myself get in the way today.

I was supposed to be poised. Zen.

Meanwhile, there was screaming happening in my brain: I DON’T WANT TO GO SEE SALUKIS.

THEY AREN’T EVEN LIZARDS.

I lowered my phone again and tried to take my mind off dogs.

Across from Auntie Nandy’s place construction was happening on a new plaza.

Men in blue jumpsuits moved to and fro, carrying tools and materials.

Something was different about them, though. Different from construction workers back home.

One guy turned this way to pick up bags of cement, and some other men came over to help, and I noticed the difference.

All of them were brown like me.

Not one of them was the other brown, Arab, like the people of this country.

I had never seen so many brown construction workers in my life.

With what I hoped was discretion, I lifted my phone and took a picture and messaged it to Kavi.

Yup.

What do you mean, yup?

Yup I’ve seen this before. My uncle lives in Dubai. It’s also full of migrant workers like this. From India, Nepal, Pakistan, the Philippines, etc.