Forty-four
[Adam]
Time stops. Like in movies, like it can never really do. The clocks stop ticking in my world, for my world. Everything stops at this point. Like holding one's breath.
***
I come home after one trip to find her by the front door. It's one of the hottest August days, the air is almost as hot as that you feel when you put your hand above the stove flame--unbearable. She stands squinting against the burning sun, the hijab messy and loose around her head, some blocks of her hair rebelling from under the white head cover. Just before I see her I was having one of my worst days; things were terrible at work, I had a raw with Omar, I probably caught a cold as well and am suffering the irritating cold headaches and fatigue. Add to that, I am being roasted in this weather. I was one second away from losing my mind.
But there she is. Like a sun shining under the sun, my own favourite part of the day. The way she smiles and squints and just waits for me is enough to make me forget about everything, even if momentarily.
"Welcome home!" she cheers once I lock the car and cross the street toward our gate. She takes a few steps away from the door to me. I put down my bag and give her a bear hug.
"How's everything?" I ask, pulling her hijab back on her head after it slides off.
"Alhamdulillah," she smiles, "what about you?"
"I'm better now," I smile gratefully, as though thanking her for showing up at our door, for living in the same house with me, for agreeing to be my wife, and for being the best wife I could ask for. For a moment, I'm wordlessly thanking her for her mere existence.
We walk inside and I close the door behind me, breathing as much air-conditioned air as I can.
"I was cleaning a bit because Heba called yesterday saying she can't come this week," she says coming out of the kitchen with a glass of apple juice. Heba is a maid who comes twice a week or something, not like we need much work, we are only two people anyway. "Here, drink this."
I sit on an armchair and take the glass from her hand, "Thank you."
I look at the coffee table in front of me and there's a small towel, she's probably been using to clean, on the floor beside the table. She follows my eyes and sees the towel, she kicks it out of sight and looks back at me and smiles sheepishly. I laugh.
"I'm a mess when it comes to house chores," she admits shyly. "When you wake up from your nap I'll be hopefully done inshallah."
"You didn't have to clean the entire house," I say putting the glass on the table, "you could've waited for Heba, not like we make that much of mess anyway."
"I know," she says, "I just felt like it. It's a Saturday so I'm off work, and you were coming back today, so I had this feeling we are some married couple from the old days when I need to clean the house and make dinner before you're back." Both of us laugh.
"Anyway," she says after a few minutes, "you go take a nap and I'll wake you up later, okay?"
"Okay," I say feeling how heavy my eyelids already are.
But she doesn't wake me anyway. I wake up on my own an hour or so later. I walk to the living area to find her struggling on a short ladder to clean the windows.
"Oh, careful!" I say hurrying toward her as the ladder shakes for a moment.
"I'm okay!" she says when I catch her. She's bent at the waist over my shoulder, one leg barely on the ladder and her entire weight on me.
"You don't have to act like Tarzan to clean," I say putting her down. "Give me this, go find something else to do."
"You'll clean?" she asks in awe. "Ah ya Rabby what have I done so good to give me such a husband." She says in a joking tone but I do see tears in her eyes.
"Mama made us clean with her every once in a while," I say, getting on the ladder. "'You aren't be better than Prophet Muhammad,' she always used to say."
"She's right," Leen smiles.
I struggle with the very-high-and-wide-I-don't-know-what-we-were-thinking-when-we-built-the-house windows for a bit longer as Leen dusts the bookshelves and furniture.
"You know what?" she says and I have to bring my head inside to hear her well.
"What?" I ask, already run out of breath.
"When we first got married I thought I would get along well with your mother." She shrugs, "I liked her and I thought she felt the same. I was really shocked when she kept accusing me of taking you away from her, I wanted to believe and think she was joking, but she wasn't and I couldn't fool myself." I open my mouth to speak but she goes on, "But despite everything, I do like and respect her, I'm thankful for the way she raised you, and I wish I can be half the good mother she is. I would love to learn how to raise a son like she did."
I get off the ladder and throw the cloth I've been holding and approach her. "Don't I have the best wife ever?" I say hugging her, "Did you, my wife, fall from heaven?" I laugh.
"Don't think too highly of me," she says breaking away and raising an eyebrow, "Sometimes I'm really mad and disappointed in her though."
"That's the thing about mother-and-daughter-in-law," I shrug playfully, "You'll never get along well enough."
"Oh thank you Adam!" she says angrily, "I sure needed that."
I laugh, "Lee."
"Yes."
"We'll raise the best of children inshallah," I smile. Her eyes shine against the August sunlight.
***
Waiting kills me slowly. Memories flood in just when they are unwelcome the most. It's like her voice will never leave my head and I will never be able to think straight. I look at Ahmed across from me, on the opposite row of chairs. He notices me, smiles knowingly and nods slightly. I nod back.
Mariam comes back with three cups of instant coffee. She hands Ahmed a cup and walks toward me with the other two, she sits down next to me and hands me the steaming coffee. I nod as a 'thank you'.
I sip the dark bitter liquid, trying to focus on the repulsive bitterness instead of my own thoughts. I'm not a big fan of instant coffee, I think coffee is too precious to be drunk this way, in this form. But I can't be ungrateful to the distraction anyway.
Until I realise it's a distraction and return to thinking once again. I lean my head to the wall behind me, close my eyes and try to kick thoughts out. I keep reciting Quran for what seems like a really long time. But somehow worries and bad thoughts find their way back.
The question I loathe the most is: what if. . .?
What if she never sees again?
What if something goes wrong during the surgery and she gets hurt even worse?
What if I was there on the night of the accident?
'What if' is an innocent question. It can come before a good or a bad suggestion, but somehow our brains only use it the bad way, on bad times, with tiring thoughts.
***
It's another September. Today is the twentieth. My birthday. I don't think there are people who really forget their birthdays. It's not like someone would check the date and find it's the month they've been born and nothing really clicks. It just doesn't make sense.
Two years ago, schools started on the twenty-first of September. The day after my birthday I took Malek to school, I ran into a girl with the most beautiful eyes I've ever witnessed. This girl became my wife.
I check the time on my phone and fall back asleep again. It's 6:30. Why wake up early when I have no work today. Plus, people are supposed to get some kind of special treatment on their birthdays anyway, am I wrong?
"Happy birthday to you," I wake up a few minutes later to Leen singing, "happy birthday to you."
I open my eyes slowly, squinting at the sunlight coming from the open balcony. I smile when I see her face so close to mine, she beams happily.
"Morning, birthday boy," she raises a cupcake with a single candle that I haven't noticed she's been holding.
"Morning," I sit up. "Romantic much, yubo?"
She laughs. "Because of your birthday and all," she shrugs. I kiss her forehead. "Make a wish," she says, moving her hand with the cupcake closer to me. I make a wish and blow off the candle. She puts the cake down on the bedside table and claps her hands as if I'm one of her students. "Now get up."
She covers my eyes with her hand and leads me to the balcony. We stop and she takes her hand away. "Now look!"
The first thing to hit me is the white sunlight, warm and perfect with a light breeze. Weather at this time is one of the perks of waking up early.
When my eyes adjust to the light I notice a cake on the table in the middle. Our white table and chairs look beautiful in contrast with the vase of red roses Leen has put on the far end of the table, overlooking the garden through the white railing. There's a closed envelope next to the cake and a silver gift box lies on top. On both sides in front of the chairs there's a small china plate, a fork and a cup of steaming hot chocolate.
I look back at her to find her looking at me expectantly, her hands tied together under her chin, her brows furrowed, and her eyes wide and shiny. I don't know which scene is better, the party she's prepared or the way she's looking at me right now.
We stay silent for a few long moments. Looking at each other dumbly.
"W-what do you think?" she finally asks.
"Ah, I'm," I clear my throat as if I'm about to propose. "Leen, this is beautiful. Seriously. When did you do all this?"
"I bought the cake yesterday and hid it in the fridge, and then got everything ready when you were sleeping like the dead."
"I guess you can hide things from me after all," I raise an eyebrow. "Not so innocent Mrs. Leen." She shrugs childishly.
We sit across from each other around the table. She cuts the cake and we start eating, we talk and make fun of each other and tell stories. She makes me promise her not to read the card--or letter because Leen doesn't just write brief notes--inside the envelope until she's gone to school. However, I open the gift box to reveal black Prada sunglasses.
"That's the one we've seen together last week!" I say.
"Yes, you liked it and I thought it was a perfect timing," she smiles victoriously. I try it on and look at her.
"How do I look?"
She studies my face for a moment, "As handsome as always."
"Do you think I look attractive?" I say showing off a lopsided smile.
"Who exactly do you want to attract, Adam Mostafa?" she asks firmly, and it's somehow intimidating how she can pull off that attitude suddenly.
"No one, habibti!" I laugh. "God, Leen you're starting to sound like a real scary teacher."
"Only with naughty children, habibi," she smiles a fake smile, narrows her eyes and bites the insides of her mouth.
"I'll behave," I raise my hands in surrender, taking the glasses off. "And I really love them. Thank you." I get up and hug her.
"I'm glad you do!" she says hugging me back tightly.
***
When I remember what she's done on my last birthday, and then remember that two month after that, and only a few months ago, before the accident when it was her birthday I was abroad, I feel a pang of guilt, a bad twinge of remorse, regret, resentment toward the old me; who had the chance to make her happy and couldn't; who had her healthy by his side and didn't appreciate it enough.
Next November, when she's by my side inshallah, I'll make sure to make her very happy. As happy as I couldn't make her last November the tenth. It's the first time I'm not sad I've given up flying. At some point in my life, flying was the most precious thing to me. It somehow kept me close to father who'd left when I was too young to comprehend such a blow. I grew up thinking it was a secret promise between him and me, to be a pilot, a great one, to see the whole world, to be a part of it all. I always thought I was doing something for him, with him--it did feel like he was there. I wanted to live like that forever, because the land is small enough, I wanted to have a parallel life in the air, where the ones I loved were still there.
I've almost never worried about my family when I was away, because Omar is always there. I always thought I'm not any better than he is, and I'll never will. I missed them a lot, but I never worried. However, after marrying Leen and feeling wholly responsible for someone, I mentally grew up, and after the accident I realised maybe staying with those who are alive is more important than staying with the ghosts and memories of the goners. I do not regret letting the passion of my life go. I actually do want to succeed as a businessman now, make our business grow, be responsible for a family.
Hours pass like long years of a long life, and I don't think my nerves can take it anymore.
Mariam puts her hand in mine making me look at her. She smiles weakly, uses her other hand to lay my head on her shoulder, then starts running her fingers throw my hair slowly, relieving my stress, fooling me into thinking I'll fall asleep any time.
"Everything is going to be alright, habibi," she says quietly. I try so hard to keep my tears in. I swallow some heavy-weighing painful lumps.
Dr. Herrmann comes out.
I jump to my feet, followed by Mariam and Ahmed. I think I've lost the ability to talk somewhere between all the memories and unspoken regrets. I can't bring myself to ask anything.
"How did it go?" I ask in the most hoarse voice I've ever heard. It comes out totally foreign, I almost don't believe it belongs to me if it isn't for the cracks I feel in my throat.
"I'm sorry," the doctor says. "We've tried our best, it's impossible."
I suddenly forget how to breathe.
Heavy silence falls on us for a few seconds.
"But how is she?" Mariam asks, breaking the silence. The question though brings me back to life partially.
"She's good," he nods professionally. "I already told her there are no side effects to the surgery."
The doctor excuses himself to leave and Mariam and Ahmed thank him in my place because, apparently, I forgot how to function.
~~~
Don't kill me!
There are two chapters left then a note where I'll explain why I've chosen this to happen. I actually had a hard time deciding, and I don't feel happy making my character blind forever, but I think the reason is convincing enough.
I can't believe how close we are to the end! It makes me both happy and sad.
Thank you for reading. <3
Nouran.