Rebels by Accident (22 page)

Dr. Nassif is speaking, but I don't register the words that she is saying.

“There were complications,” Dr. Nassif repeats.

“What does that mean?” Hassan asks.

“It's something doctors say when they've screwed up.” Deanna's choking back her tears.

“Believe me, the surgeons did everything they could.” Dr. Nassif sounds like she's also holding back some anger. She turns to me. “I'm so very sorry. I know how hard this must be for you.”

I don't feel anything—not sadness or anger or pain. None of this feels real to me. I'm standing in the hospital hallway, in a circle with these people, but it's like everyone is talking through a wall. I can only vaguely hear them, and I have to struggle to make out the individual words.

Dr. Nassif's pager goes off, and she looks down at it. “I have to go,” she says. “Do you know who will prepare the body for burial?”

I think she is speaking to me, but my head and heart and mouth won't connect. Ahmed responds instead. “I don't know,” he says. He's clutching his prayer beads so tight, his knuckles have turned white.

“Prepare the body?” Deanna says. “Is there a funeral place we should call?”

“Deanna, in Islam, it's the family or members of the community who prepare the body,” Muhammad explains.

“Sittu doesn't have any other family here. Just me,” I say. “My father is trying to get a flight.”

“It should be a woman,” Hassan says.

“My mother will be coming too,” I tell him.

“Do you know when your parents are due to arrive?” Dr. Nassif asks.

“They still hadn't found a flight when I spoke to them an hour ago,” I tell her.

“With everything that's going on, that may be a while,” Muhammad says. He gives my hand a squeeze, and I squeeze back, grateful to have him close.

“There's no embalming. We must bury her straight away,” Ahmed says.

“No embalming?” I ask. “I thought the Egyptians, like, invented—”

“Ancient Egyptians,” Hassan says. “Muslims don't want to disturb the body, so we do as little to it as possible. We try to bury the dead within a day.”

“A day?” I repeat, barely able to comprehend it.

“Is there a close friend of the family you could call?” Dr. Nassif asks.

“I'm not feeling so good,” Deanna says.

“You're very pale. Let me look at you,” Dr. Nassif says.

“Don't touch me,” Deanna says through her tears as she steps away.

The doctor's beeper goes off again. The sound makes me want to scream.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” I say to Dr. Nassif. I know I shouldn't be so mean. She could've let the surgeons share the bad news. It was kind that she came to tell us herself.

“Please let the nurse at the desk know what you decide. And may Allah's blessing be upon your grandmother,” Dr. Nassif says. She nods at me before heading to the elevator.

“What does it mean to prepare the body?” I ask Ahmed.

“There's washing.”

“You have to wash the body?” Deanna holds her stomach. I'm afraid she's going to be sick. “With what?” Deanna asks.

“Like the way we do ablutions before praying?” I ask.

“Something like that,” Ahmed says.

“Shouldn't that be done by some official religious person, like a priest or imam or even someone who's, like, very religious and prays all the time?” Deanna asks.

“No, it's not necessary. It's not like in the States. There's no certificate of any kind that you need. But someone who knows the steps usually does the preparation. Maybe my sister will be able to come,” Ahmed says.

“Ahmed, you know what's happening in the streets in Giza right now,” Hassan says. “It's just like what is happening here. I don't think your sister will even be able to get here.”

Until now, I hadn't even given Ahmed's family a thought. He's been at the hospital the whole time with Sittu and the rest of us, and I've never even considered that he might be worried about his family.

“I'm really not feeling good. I need some air,” Deanna says again.

“Can you make it to the water closet?” Hassan asks, but Deanna pushes him away and heads for the stairs.

Hassan starts to go after her, but I let go of Muhammad's hand and pull Hassan back.

“Let me,” I tell him.

I find Deanna pacing on the sidewalk outside the hospital. It's already dark. I walk along beside her until I'm too tired to take another step.

“Deanna, please talk to me,” I finally say.

“I had to get out of there. I just couldn't breathe,” Deanna says. “How are you so calm?”

“I don't know. None of this makes any sense to me.”

Deanna stops and turns to me. The streetlight is out, so it's too dark for me to see her face when she says, “She can't be dead. She just can't be. How is someone alive one minute and then dead? Gone!” I know when Deanna says this, she's not just talking about Sittu, but also the boy she saw killed yesterday. And as much as I wish I could have been there for her, I'm glad I didn't have to see that.

“She is dead,” I say, wrapping my arms around Deanna. “Sittu's dead.” And as I say this, every inch of my skin feels like it's been lit on fire. I don't remember anything ever hurting as much as this.

“Sittu wouldn't want us to cry,” I tell Deanna, tears streaming down my cheeks and soaking Deanna's shirt. She's crying too. Her entire body shakes in my arms, and for a long time, we just stand there, holding on to each other. And then, just like that, I know what I have to do.

“I'm going to prepare Sittu's body,” I say.

“Are you crazy?” Deanna pulls away, and although her eyes are still filled with tears, she sounds more like her old self. “You're not even all that religious.”

“I'm the only family Sittu has here, and I think she'd want me to do this for her.”

“Have you ever even seen a dead body?” Deanna says.

“No,” I say, trying to sound like it's no big deal.

“Well, I have. My mom took me to a funeral when a woman at her work died. The casket was open—apparently that's a Catholic thing—and it was totally creepy. I had a hard time looking at it, and I didn't even know her.”

I shrug and walk toward the hospital entrance. I know Deanna thinks she's helping. Like I don't already know how hard this is going to be? Sittu was my grandmother.

“Where are you going?” Deanna asks, catching up to me at the elevator.

“You always say it's the things you don't do that you regret, right?”

Deanna nods.

“I don't really want to do this. And I don't know whether I even can do this. But I have to at least try.” I press the up button. “I can't run away from this.” I swallow back more tears. “I promised her it'd be okay.”

“That wasn't your promise to make,” Deanna says. Her words sting, but I'm glad she doesn't try to make excuses for me.

We both watch the numbers descend until the elevator doors open. A woman with two small children gets out. I walk in, then hold the doors open for Deanna to follow. “You coming?”

“On one condition,” she says.

“And that is?”

“You let me help.”

“Deanna, you don't have to.”

“Listen, I'm family too. Sittu said so.”

I smile at her.

We ride the elevator in silence until Deanna says, “Ahmed said the body has to be prepared by someone who knows what they're doing.”

“We can get him to write down the instructions.”

“What if we make a mistake?” Deanna asks.

“If we don't do it perfectly, I think God'll forgive us. I know Sittu will.”

The room smells like bleach, and the overhead light is so bright, I feel like we're on one of those CSI shows, trying to find clues to determine the cause of death. But despite my fears, it turns out there's nothing weird or gross or scary or creepy about Sittu's dead body.

“
Bismillah
—in the name of Allah,” I say before we start, just as Ahmed instructed me. I don't think he was crazy about the idea of Deanna and me doing this, but I know he understood. Besides, when I called Baba, he sounded relieved that I'd be the one to take care of Sittu's body. He said Sittu would be happy it was me, someone who was family, and not some stranger.

“Her hair is so beautiful, but I wonder why she never colored it,” Deanna says as she combs Sittu's long gray hair. “She would have looked so much younger.” Deanna seems like she's going to be okay, and I've never been more grateful to have her with me.

Sittu always wore her hair pinned up to the back of her head, so I never realized it reached all the way down to her waist.

It's time to start the bathing. I squeeze excess water from a white washcloth that's been soaking in a basin of warm water and jasmine oil. I wipe Sittu's cheeks, her forehead, her chin, and along the sides of her nose (which really is exactly like mine, only it looks prettier on Sittu). Maybe as I get older, my nose will fit me better. Mom has always said it would.

“Ahmed said you don't have to clean the insides of her nostrils, like one does during ablutions,” Deanna says, braiding Sittu's hair in three plaits, exactly as Ahmed had written in his instructions.

“I'm not,” I say. “Can you help me turn her on her side?”

“You did her back twice already,” she says.

“I'm supposed to do it three times.” I tap the white notebook paper, torn from Deanna's vision book.

“Be careful, Mar. You're getting the paper wet,” Deanna warns.

“I'm not getting it wet!” I can hear the snap in my tone, and I regret it.

Deanna doesn't say a word. She just puts down the hairbrush and walks over to my side of the table. Together, we move Sittu onto her side. Deanna holds her steady while I clean her back for the third time, starting from the nape of her neck to in between the crevices of her toes. When I'm done, we carefully guide Sittu onto her back again. Deanna goes back to Sittu's hair, the two of us working in silence until I move the white cloth carefully over the Frankenstein stitches holding Sittu's heart inside her body.

I reach out and touch Deanna's hand as she braids Sittu's hair. “I'm sorry.”

“Like my mother always says, ‘A good friend is allowed five cranky moments a year—a best friend, ten.' This is only your first offense, and it's early in the year.” Deanna lifts Sittu's neck, clips the braids to the back of her head, and says, “Okay. Done.”

With her hair styled, Sittu looks like she's just sleeping—a deep sleep—and she'll wake up soon.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” I say.

“You don't thank family,” Deanna says. “Besides, we're in this together, remember?”

I drop the washcloth back into the bowl of scented water, and with another clean white cloth, I dry Sittu's entire body. When I'm done, I cross Sittu's arms, right over left, like she's praying.

Deanna puts drops of jasmine oil on Sittu's head, forehead, nose, armpits, hands, and knees, also according to Ahmed's notes.

After sprinkling drops of the oil over a white cotton sheet, which Ahmed called a
kafan
, Deanna and I wrap Sittu the way Ahmed says mothers swaddle their babies, though I don't think it's exactly the same way.

Deanna ties the end of the
kafan
at the bottom of Sittu's feet, and using a piece of cloth cut from the same
kafan
, we wrap Sittu's head and make a knot at the top. Deanna walks back to my side of the table and takes my hand as we look at Sittu's covered body. We don't cry now, because Ahmed said we shouldn't cry for Sittu; she's going to a better place. We don't cry for ourselves, because as Deanna says, some things are way too sad for tears.

“She died on my birthday,” I whisper.

“Wasn't it past midnight?” Deanna says.

“Not in New York,” I say.

“Sittu would want you to celebrate her life. And like Ahmed said, it's a better life she's moving on to, so in a way, it's kind of her birthday too.” When Deanna says this, I feel lighter for a moment.

“Should I tell the hospital people we're done?” Deanna asks me.

“Sure,” I say, and Deanna steps out of the room.

I untie the top of Sittu's
kafan
and uncover her just enough to sneak a kiss on both eyelids.

It hurts to say good-bye.

“We have to go now,” Ahmed says as Deanna and I return to Sittu's hospital room. There, at the foot of her now-empty bed, are Deanna's and my suitcases.

“What's going on?” I ask Hassan and Muhammad, who are each sitting on one arm of the chair I'd slept in. It's feels like so much has happened in the last few hours that I can't remember if it was last night or the night before. I notice neither of them will make eye contact with me.

“If we're going to make your flight, we have to go, and we have to go now,” Ahmed says, picking up my bright red suitcase.

“
Yalla
,” he says, turning to the guys.

Both of them jump up so fast, the chair almost turns over. They each pick up one of Deanna's yellow suitcases.

“Stop.” I put out my hand. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“There's no time to argue,” Ahmed says.

“He's right,” Muhammad tells me, and this time, he makes eye contact. It looks like he's been crying.

“What is going on?” I ask.

Deanna's gone totally silent. Not a question? No protest? Did we somehow enter a parallel universe or something?

“Deanna?”

“We're going home, Mariam,” she says, staring at Hassan like this is the last time she'll ever see him.

“New York? There's no way I'm going back right now,” I tell them.

Ahmed drops my suitcase. “Mariam, I called your parents and—”

“You did what?”

“It's not safe for you girls to be here right now,” he explains.

“We're not girls!” I shout. “We're women. And we're not going anywhere.” I turn to Deanna for backup, but she's still staring at Hassan.

“There's a car waiting downstairs. We have to go now,” Ahmed says, picking up the suitcase again.

“Muhammad?” I ask as Ahmed walks past me.

“He's right, Mariam. I wish to God he wasn't, but things may get worse before they get better. Mubarak's desperate, and there's no telling what will happen.”

“
Yalla
,” Ahmed calls from the doorway. “Now—we have to go now.”

Muhammad, Hassan, and even Deanna follow him out of the room. I can't believe this is happening. There's no way we're leaving like this. Not now. Not right after I cleaned my grandmother's body. Not before we bury her. If Sittu were alive, what would she say about her granddaughters abandoning Egypt in the middle of a crisis?

I sink to the floor and fold my arms across my chest. It's not long before the four of them are back.

“What is she doing?” Ahmed shouts. “We have to go! There may not be another flight—”

“I think she's staging a sit-in,” Hassan says.

“Are you joking?” Ahmed walks over to me, reaches down, and tries to pull me up by an arm, but I go limp, like I've seen antiwar protesters do in movies.

“Her head is as hard as her grandmother's,” he says, dropping my arm.

“Harder,” I say.

“Mariam.” Ahmed's voice is softer now. “
Habibti
, please…”

“Don't you dare call me
habibti
,” I say, looking up at him. “I'm not your
habibti
. You called my parents, you traitor. What would Sittu say if she were here?”

“Mariam,” Hassan says, kneeling down so he's face-to-face with me.

“What?” I say, knowing I sound like a two-year-old.

“Sittu…” He takes in a breath. “She told Ahmed if she didn't, well, make it, he was to contact your parents and get you home.”

“I don't believe you,” I say, but I know he's telling the truth.

“Mariam, she was worried about you and Deanna, and she wanted you safe.”

“I don't care what Sittu wanted!” I shout. “She's trying to do to me exactly what she did to my father!”

“Mariam! Don't you dare talk about your grandmother like that.” Ahmed sounds like Baba. But he's not my father.

“I love Sittu, but no one is going to tell me to leave Egypt. This is my country too. Deanna and I want to stay.”

“No, Mar. I want to go home.” I've never heard her sound so defeated. “Mariam,” she says, sitting down next to me. “I'm so sorry, but I really want to go home now. Please.”

I look at her. She's been through a lot during the last few days, and when I look at Hassan, who's still kneeling in front of me, and then up at Ahmed and Muhammad, I realize we all have.

“Fine,” I say, “let's go home.”

Muhammad takes my hand, and I don't let go until we're outside the hospital. We head to a big black car that looks like the ones you see driven by CIA agents or mafia guys in movies, tinted windows and all. The driver puts our suitcases in the trunk, then walks over to the back passenger door and holds it open for us, just like Salam did that first day when we arrived. Only this driver doesn't smile, and his name doesn't mean
peace
.

Hassan hugs me first. “When you come back, I'll take you all the way to the top of the pyramid.”

“Okay, but when you come to New York, you have to come with me to the top of the Empire State Building. And we're taking the stairs. Well, at least a few flights, anyway.”

“Deal,” he says, and hugs me again, and then we kiss on both cheeks.

He moves over to Deanna, and although they should be close enough for me to hear what they're saying, I'm too distracted by Muhammad to care.

“Life can be pretty unfair,” he says.

“But it can also be pretty awesome,” I say as he reaches out to shake my hand.

I don't get it. A handshake? I want a kiss, and not a cheek-to-cheek kiss like Hassan just gave me, a real kiss. But then I remember something Baba once told me: “If a boy really likes you, he shows respect; and this means he never kisses you in public.” This thought makes me smile. I take his hand, and I shake it firmly, like good Americans do, and when he laughs, I hear,
I
love
you
.

Now it's Ahmed's turn. He hesitates, and I open my arms. We hug as if I've known him my whole life.

“You don't really hate me,” he whispers in my ear.

“I could never hate you,” I whisper into his chest. “Besides, when Sittu speaks, we listen.”

“Yes, we all listen,” Deanna says as she wraps herself around us both.

“The time, sir,” the driver says, and the three of us let go of one another.

“I need to take care of your
sittu
's affairs, or I'd come with you to the airport.”

“I'm glad you can be here for her,” I say.

“When are you going home?” Deanna asks.

“I think I'll make Egypt my home again for a little while. My sister is on her own now, and she can use my help. Besides, the only family I have left in America is my son, but he lives in Los Angeles, and I don't get to see him all that much.”

“You also have us,” I say.

“That's right.” Deanna nods. “We're your family now too.” She sounds a little like Sittu did when she was insisting on something.

Ahmed takes both of our hands in his and says, “Please take care of each other. And call me as soon as you get home, okay?” Ahmed kisses Deanna on both cheeks. Then he turns to me. “Mariam, your grandmother and I didn't have much time together, but in the time we had, I saw a beauty and strength in her that's so rare in this world.” He swallows hard, barely holding himself together.

“It's okay.” I squeeze his hand. “You don't have to say anything more. I know how much you loved her.”

“
Love
, present, not past tense,
habibti
.”

“Thank you,” I say. I don't know if Sittu was in love with Ahmed too, but I bet she would have been, in time.

“
Habibti
.” He steps back and looks at me. “It is I who must thank you.” He turns to Deanna. “And you. If it weren't for you two kooky girls adopting me at the airport, I would never have believed an old man like me could find love.”

“But it was for such a short time. It's not fair,” Deanna says.

“Maybe, maybe not…but it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

I smile. “Hannah Montana said that, right?”

“You are a very funny girl—woman, Mariam. You are so very much her granddaughter.” Ahmed kisses my forehead, drops both of our hands, turns to Hassan and Muhammad, and takes them both into his arms like they're his family too. “
Yalla
,” he says.

Deanna quickly kisses Ahmed, Muhammad, and Hassan on one cheek (well, she lingers a little on Hassan's cheek) and gets into the car. I've just barely gotten in when the driver shuts the door behind me.

As the driver starts the car, there's a knock on the window, but the window won't roll down. After all I've been through, the driver has the childproof locks on!

“Please, the window.” Deanna taps the driver on his shoulder, and the window rolls down.

“I almost forgot,” Ahmed says, pulling a packet from the inside of his suit pocket. “She asked me to give this to you.” He puts several folded sheets of blue stationery into my hand, then raps on the car door. The window goes up, and the driver pulls away from the curb.

“What is it?” Deanna asks.

“I think it's a letter,” I say.

Deanna doesn't push. She nods and looks out the window, and now there are a few more cars on the road. After a few minutes, I unfold the letter. I can smell Sittu's perfume—or maybe I just imagine I do. In any case, it feels like she's still here with us.

My dearest Mariam,

The doctor says the heart is a very fixable organ. But you can't fix what isn't broken. It will soon be my time to leave this earth. Allah knows best, and I'm blessed to be with Allah now.

I asked Ahmed to give you this letter after all was said and done. He's a good man, and I thank you and Deanna for bringing him into my life. Sometimes our greatest experiences are only moments long. I'm sure he told you not to cry for me, but if he didn't, he should have. I am in a glorious place. If you need to cry for yourselves, you should, but not for too long. There's too much you need to do and enjoy. There will be other things for you to cry over in your life, so don't waste all of those tears on me.

Mariam, you are the light of my heart. To see what a strong and courageous woman you have become is the greatest blessing I could have hoped to receive. Please tell Deanna it is more than I could have prayed for to have been blessed with another granddaughter—particularly one as bold and beautiful as she is.

I nudge Deanna and share the letter so she can read it too. When she gets to the part that Sittu wrote about her, Deanna says, “‘Bold and beautiful.' Wasn't that some soap opera?”

I point to the next line.

Oh, and no reference to that TV show intended here.

“Wow, she's reading our minds from the beyond,” Deanna says.

“Just read,” I say.

I don't have to tell Deanna to speak up for herself or to believe in herself, because she already does. But, Mariam, you tell her Sittu says she should never let anyone tell her she can't smile. Her eyes smile and laugh as loud as a thousand children. She doesn't believe this yet, but you can help her to see it is true. My advices to her are simple: Deanna, keep your heart as open to the world as it is today, and when it breaks—and I'm so sorry, habibti, it will, because that's just the way life works—believe me when I tell you the pain will end. Nothing on this earth lasts forever. Except maybe plastic.

Please tell Hassan he's a good man and he should stay that way, especially if he doesn't want me haunting him from the grave.

And, Mariam, my habibti, I have only one advice for you. Okay, actually, I have a few. Our flaws shine when we become parents. It's only when we become grandparents that we get it right most of the time. You will see this one day if you decide to have your own children, insh'allah. For now, give your parents a break.

Remember to be true to yourself. You are who you are, and that is all you have to be. Don't be afraid to speak up. Trust in yourself, and life will be yours to experience. I want you to have anything I've left behind, but please, if you decide to take the true mirror, just remember, it's not the real you and—well, I think you know why.

“Why?” Deanna says, but I ignore her and try to keep reading. “Tell me why,” she repeats, poking me in my side.

“Quit it.”

“Then tell me.”

“She means because it shouldn't matter how others see me. It should only matter what I see,” I say.

“Sittu was very wise,” Deanna says with admiration, and I continue reading.

One day you will look into any mirror and see the real you—the Mariam that is the beautiful and brilliant ghareeba wa gameela.

“Deanna, what does that mean?” I ask.

Now Deanna taps on the blue paper. “True weirdo.”

So wave your freak flag high, and know that even if you try, you will never be able to forget Misr. She's forever a part of you.

Oh, and I'm sorry I didn't have more time to get to know Muhammad, but I can tell you one thing for sure—he's a real cutie.

Love,

Sittu

P.S. And one last advices, Mariam. You are sixteen now, so go and get yourself on Facebook already!

“True weirdo,” Deanna says. “We should start a fan page for True Weirdos everywhere.”

I fold the letter, and through the tinted glass window, I see two cars have just had a fender bender. I wonder whether our driver will stop and give advices, but he just keeps driving and doesn't stop until we reach the airport.

I miss Sittu already.