Rebels by Accident (20 page)

A nurse comes into the room as I'm folding Sittu's prayer rug. Her name tag says “Karima,” with Arabic writing underneath it. She's pushing a cart with a lot of medical equipment on it. For a second, I wonder whether they're going to do the surgery right here in Sittu's room.

“It's time to get you ready,” Nurse Karima tells Sittu, and I know the English is for my benefit. “How are we feeling this morning?” she asks. Her tone is serious and she doesn't smile, but there's something about her that makes me feel like she likes her job and does it well.

“
Alhamdulillah
—thanks to God—I'm good,” Sittu responds, but she looks weaker than she did just a few minutes ago.

“Do you want me to stay, Sittu?”

“Go check on the rest of the group,
habibti
. Make sure they eat.”

“I will call you when we're done here,” Nurse Karima says.

“
Shukran
.”

“
Afwan
.”

“Isn't my granddaughter beautiful?” I hear Sittu say as I walk out of the room. She's using English for my benefit too.

In the waiting area, Deanna and Hassan are sound asleep on the couch. She's resting her head against his chest, and he has his arms around her. From the way Hassan's head is angled, his neck is definitely going to hurt, but somehow, I don't think he'll mind. I want to wake him and ask if he's gotten a text or a voice mail from Muhammad, but I don't. He and Deanna look too peaceful to disturb. Right now, I have to believe that no news is good news.

I don't see Ahmed. He's probably gone home, which makes me sad. It's been so helpful having him around, but he's already done so much. The poor man's only had, like, half a date with Sittu, but it's clear how much he cares for her. I guess for some guys, one date is enough to know that someone's special. I guess Deanna's right: love happens when you least expect it.

Muhammad and I haven't even had half a date yet, but I feel like we've known each other forever. I think Baba and Mom would like him—well, as much as they'd like any boy dating their daughter.

Last night, despite my promise to Sittu, I made a lot of calls to New York. My mother is trying to find a flight for her and Baba, but so far, no luck; many flights have been canceled and the others are overbooked. I can't believe she's actually willing to fly. Maybe it's a good thing they're not going to be here until Sittu's in recovery. It's hard enough holding it together right now. If Baba and Mom—the king and queen of worrying—were here, I'd totally lose it.

I take a seat facing Deanna and Hassan. I press my head against the back of the chair and find it's a lot more comfortable than the one in Sittu's room. I listen to Hassan and Deanna breathing in sync, which makes me yawn.
I'll rest my eyes, only for a minute…

• • •

“
Sabah
an-nur
,” Hassan says.

“The morning light,” Deanna chimes in. They are both standing over me.

“I fell asleep?”

“Sittu wants to see you,” Deanna says.

I startle and jump up. “Is it time?”

“Almost,” Hassan says.

I hurry to Sittu's room. Suddenly, Ahmed shouts, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” He's holding a large chocolate-frosted cake covered with candles. Once again, I'd forgotten all about my birthday.

“I hope you still like chocolate as much as you did when you were a child,” Sittu says with a smile. She's lying on a gurney, not her bed, and she looks so tired.

“There's, like, a hundred candles on that cake,” Deanna chuckles, walking in behind me.

“Did you use the whole box?” Hassan asks Ahmed.

“Of course! Sixteen for the birthday and the rest for good fortune,” Ahmed says. “So make a wish before we burn down Cairo.”

Hassan and Deanna give him a slightly shocked look.

“Well, you know what I mean.” Ahmed kisses me on the cheek. I look over at Sittu, and I know exactly what to wish for.

“You all need to help me,” I say. “You too, Nurse Karima.” This makes her smile. “On the count of three:
waahid
,
itnein
,
talaata
.” Together, we blow out the candles on our very first try.

“So, someone has been learning more Arabic behind my back,” Sittu says, reaching out to touch my hand.

“I'm very sorry,” Karima says, waving the smoke away. “We have to take her to surgery now.”

Ahmed hands the cake to Hassan. “Why don't you and Deanna take this into the waiting area?”

Deanna kisses Sittu on the cheek.

“Deanna, I am sorry I was so angry yesterday.”

“Family never has to apologize,” Deanna says, her eyes filling with tears.

“Ah, none of that,” Sittu says. “I'll be back before you have time to miss me. Save your tears for this heartbreaker.” She nods toward Hassan.

“You're still trying to ruin my reputation,” he says.

“I'm still trying to give you one,” Sittu says.

“Oh, my grandfather said to tell you that you can use the elevator free of charge when you get home, but only for a month.” Hassan says this with a smile, though his eyes are tearing too.

“If he thinks I'll ever pay even one pound, you just tell your
giddu
to be ready for a fight.” Sittu smiles, and for a moment, she looks as strong as she did when we met at the airport. Then she says to Hassan, “Now, you go and take the cake out to the waiting area and share some with the nurses. Deanna, you help him.”

Sittu's about to be wheeled off to have her chest cut open, but she's still directing traffic. I think she's going to be just fine.

“I love you,” Deanna says as she leaves the room. Hassan follows her with the cake.

“Mariam, when are your parents coming?” Sittu asks as Nurse Karima wheels her out of the room. Ahmed and I are walking on each side of her gurney as she rolls down the hall.

“You told me not to call them—”

“Mariam,” she says, and gives me a you've-got-to-be-kidding look.

“They're trying to get a flight right now,” I tell her.

“You must promise me something,” she says.

“Anything,” I tell her.

“Don't let them make a fuss over me. Those two will drive me crazy.”

“Okay, I'll tell them I've fallen in love with Ahmed. That should divert their attention.”

Sittu laughs, and so does Karima.

Ahmed looks at me and shakes his head. “You're as crazy as your
sittu
.”

Karima hits the button when we reach the elevators. “Only one of you may come along,” she says. “Hospital policy.”

Ahmed starts to back away, but Sittu grabs his hand. “You come. Mariam, I need you to do something for me right now.” The elevator door opens, and Ahmed holds it.

“Of course, Sittu—anything.”

“Go eat two pieces of cake—one for you and one for me.”

“I'll eat one piece, and the other I'll save for you,” I say, swallowing hard.

“Even better idea,” she says, pulling me to her and kissing me hard on both cheeks, the same way she did when I first arrived—only now I understand this means she loves me.

“
Yalla
.” She looks up at Nurse Karima. “I think the pill the anesthesiologist gave me is starting to make me hallucinate.”

“Hallucinate?” Nurse Karima sounds concerned.

“Yes. My granddaughter is beginning to look like a very mature and confident woman.” Sittu winks at me, and I feel grateful that I've been blessed with such an awesome grandmother. I can't wait for her to get better so we can hang out more.

“That's no hallucination,” Nurse Karima says, pushing the gurney into the elevator. Ahmed joins them.

“
Ana
bahibbik
,” I say as the doors close. “I love you, Sittu.”

“Cake?” Hassan asks when I join him and Deanna in the waiting area. He's acting way too casual. Something's wrong. I can feel it in my stomach. And I don't think it has anything to do with Sittu's surgery.

“It's bad luck not to eat your own birthday cake,” he says, handing me a plate with a slice of chocolate cake.

“I'm not very hungry,” I say, putting the plate down on a small table by the TV.

The table wobbles, and Hassan grabs the plate just before it falls. He places the cake on top of the television. He says, “Here in Egypt, if it isn't broken, you keep it; and if it is broken, you still keep it. Well, maybe that's changing now.” Hassan forces a smile. I assume he's talking about the revolution, but I can't bring myself to smile back. For once, I'm grateful Deanna can't smile, although I know she wouldn't even if she could. I know she's hurting as much as I am, and will be until the surgery is over and they tell us Sittu is going to be okay.

“We're going to be here a while,” Hassan says. “It was close to eight hours with my grandfather's bypass, so you really should eat some cake.”

“Oh my God, Hassan,” Deanna says, “stop it with the cake and just tell her already.”

Hassan gives Deanna one of those obvious “not now” looks.

“I knew it,” I say. “What happened? What's wrong?”

“It's probably nothing to worry about,” Hassan says.

“Then just tell me.”

Hassan looks at Deanna.

“Tell her,” she says.

“Let's sit down.” I don't want to sit down, but I do. Hassan takes the seat next to me on the couch, and Deanna hovers beside me.

“Mariam.” He looks at the floor, then back up at Deanna, who makes circles in the air with her hand, signaling he should keep going.

“No one's heard from Muhammad since yesterday.”

“You called his house?” I ask.

“Yes, but I didn't expect him to be there.”

“What did you expect?” I'm surprised at how calm I sound.

“He hasn't checked in with anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

Hassan hesitates again.

“Let me tell her.” Deanna kneels down in front of me and rests her hands on my knees. “Listen, you have to swear, on our friendship, that what I'm about to tell you never leaves this room—or even this couch.”

“You know you can trust me.”

“Swear.”

“Okay, I swear.”

“On our friendship,” she repeats.

I'm starting to lose patience, but I pledge my oath. “I swear on our friendship.”

Then Hassan says, “Muhammad and I were part of the April Sixth group—”

“They were the organizers,” Deanna interrupts. “Yesterday too.”

“We were a few of the organizers,” Hassan explains.

I can't believe that they were involved at all. “You just seem like such regular guys.”

“We are regular guys and girls. We don't really know each other too well. We don't make calls; we just text using SIM cards we buy for that purpose. We don't even use our real names, so if the police pick any of us up—”

“In case they torture you, they won't learn the real names of anyone else involved,” I finish for him.

Hassan nods.

I think of Baba and wonder how different his life would have been if he'd never been arrested and tortured. Strange to think I might never have been born—or how different my life would have been if my parents had met here in Egypt.

“We never expected it to become such a huge protest,” Hassan tells me. “The last I heard from Muhammad was when he texted all of us, asking to help him find an American girl. I knew it was him, of course. We texted back and forth a little, and I was having no luck finding her anywhere either.”

“Oh my God, if something happened to him, it's all my fault,” I say, realizing I was the one who sent him out to look for Deanna.

“No, Mariam,” Deanna says. “I'm the one who's to blame.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Hassan says, looking first at me and then at Deanna. “You both need to get over yourselves. Feeling responsible for any of this is, well, egotistical. Muhammad makes his own choices.”

“Okay,” Deanna and I say in unison.

“Good,” Hassan says.

“But we have to do something to help him,” I say.

“Everything that we can do for Muhammad is being done,” Hassan says. “People are out looking for him, and if—and this is only if—he's been hurt or arrested, we'll find out soon enough. Right now, all we can do is wait and eat the cake.”

Hassan picks up my plate from the top of the television set, sits down on the couch, and begins to eat. Deanna and I sit too, and we wait.

A little while later, Ahmed comes into the room waving his phone. “Mariam, it's your mother. She sounds upset.”

Deanna mutters to Hassan, “She always sounds upset.”

Before I can tell her not to diss my mother, Ahmed shoves his ancient phone at me.

“Thanks,” I say. “Mom?”

“Mariam, I'm so glad to hear your voice. I tried Sittu's cell phone, but I couldn't get through.”

“Mom—”

“We still can't find a flight. You're staying in the hospital like you promised? Right? No going out. The TV is showing the police attacking people on the streets.” Her voice gets louder and louder, and I can feel her fear right through the phone.

“I promise, Mom. Where's Baba?”

“We have to get you home right now,” she says.

“Mom, it's okay. I'm okay. We're safe. Please, Mom. It'll be okay. Where's Baba?”

“He said he was going to speak with a friend of a friend who does travel bookings for businesses. I don't really know where he is right now.” I hear my mother take a shaky breath. “I'm so sorry you're alone with all that's happening there and your grandmother in surgery.”

“It's okay. I'm not alone. Deanna's with me.”

“She's just a kid, Mariam.”

“Mom, she's not just a kid. And I'm not a kid either. I'll call when Sittu gets out of surgery. Please give Baba a kiss for me.” I end the call. I don't think I've ever hung up on my mother before.

“Thanks,” I say, handing Ahmed his phone.

“Are you okay?” he asks me. I must look as sick as I feel.

“I've never heard my mother sound so worried before,” I tell him.

“Parents are always going to worry,” he says.

“I know.” But this time, I'm probably just as worried as my mom—maybe even more. My mom's worried about me, but I'm worrying about Sittu and Muhammad. And when I look over at Hassan, who's pulling back the drapes to look out the window, I know he's worrying for all of Egypt.

“Ahmed, may I use your phone too?” Deanna asks. “I really should call my mother.”

“Of course,” he says.

Deanna takes his phone. “How old is this thing?” she asks.

“If it's not broke…” Ahmed says with a smile, but Deanna's already stepped into the hallway.

Hassan turns to me. “You okay?”

“I'll be fine,” I say, walking over to join him. We both look out the window, and it's eerie how few cars there are on the road.

Then Hassan says, “I haven't known him very long, but he seems like someone who can take care of himself. He'll be okay.”

“Thanks,” I say, and my stomach hurts a little less until I see a tank rolling up the street.

“You have to see this.” Hassan waves Ahmed over to the window.

“A tank!” Ahmed says, peering over Hassan's shoulder. “I've never seen tanks in the streets of Cairo before, not even during the sixty-seven war.”

“It must be so hard living in a place like this,” I say.

“A place like what?” Hassan asks, with an edge in his voice that I've never heard before.

“You know—”

“Oh, you mean a place where the government oppresses people and accuses them of crimes they didn't commit, then throws them in jail without trials?”

I stare at him. I can't tell whether he's angry or sad—or maybe a little of both.

“I think Hassan's talking about the U.S.,” Ahmed says, watching what's happening below like Sittu and I watched the traffic from her balcony.

“I know things aren't perfect in America, but at least people have rights.”

“Not all people,” Hassan says. “Do you know how many people in the States have been put into prisons without ever going on trial?”

“That's against our constitution,” I say.

“Mariam, Homeland Security doesn't have to follow the constitution,” Ahmed tells me. “As long as the president declares something a national security risk, our laws get thrown right out the window.” Ahmed is still focused on the street.

“My brother in New Jersey lost his job after 9/11,” Hassan says, making a fist, but he keeps his arm at his side, “because Homeland Security officers came around, asking questions about him.”

“What did he do wrong?”

“Wrong? He did nothing wrong. His name came up on some list because he donated money to a charity that gives medical relief to Palestine. There were no charges, but my brother's boss didn't want any problems. It took him almost a year to find another job, and he had to take a big cut in pay too.”

“Okay, so a lot of bad stuff happened before, but at least now we have Obama.”

“You mean your president who promised to close the detention camp at Guantanamo Bay?” says Hassan, sounding sarcastic. “Even your courts demanded that it be shut down, but your military continues to hold untried prisoners.”

“Sounds like what happens here,” I say.

“It's nothing like what happens here!” Ahmed sounds defensive.

“Well, he made a good speech,” Hassan interjects. “Still, the tear gas dropped on us yesterday was made in America.”

“This is true,” Ahmed says, walking over to the couch and plopping down.

I lean against the wall, looking down at the chocolate birthday cake and the melted candles. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I were at home. I miss my mother and father and the dorky birthday celebration they would've thrown for me.

Hassan's phone beeps and he pulls it from his pocket. As he reads the text, I watch the expression on his face, but there's nothing I can interpret.

Then Deanna practically dances into the room, she's so excited. “My mom says back home, people are organizing marches in Manhattan and Queens and in Jersey too, in support of the Egyptian people! Isn't that great, Mar?” She looks at me for approval. I manage a little smile, and she asks, “Hassan, did you hear me?”

He looks up from his phone. “They think Muhammad was arrested,” he says quietly.

My head starts to spin. I reach out to steady myself, but the only thing within reach is the TV. It comes crashing down with me—along with the cake and any hope I still had that Muhammad was safe.