“Caroline,” Mom calls. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Vivian stands in the path between boxes. She wraps me up in a tight hug. “I was so looking forward to hanging out with you at school this year,” she says. “But I guess we’re going to have to look for each other in New York next fall, right?”
I smile. “Right.”
“I can’t stay because my driver’s got the car idling at the curb.” Vivian releases me. “But stay in touch, okay?”
“Definitely. You too.”
My friend is gone as quick as she came and then it’s time for us to leave. There are so many things I’m going to miss about Cairo: the Nile right outside my bedroom window, buying fresh bread in the morning, the incessant noise, even the call to prayer. But mostly I am going to miss the people.
“We are sad to see you go,” Mr. Elhadad says as we gather up our bags. “I am sorry my country has driven you away.”
“Egypt has given us far more reason to stay,” Mom says. “And I’m sorry we have to leave.”
“I count you as friends.” He hugs Dad, Mom, and then me. We’ve come so far from the first day, when I didn’t even know if I should shake his hand. “And I will hope a day will come when you return.”
Mr. Elhadad stays behind to sort out what will be sold and what will be sent to us. He’ll meet with the rental agent to give him our payment for breaking the lease. Dad also left Mr. Elhadad with an envelope containing enough money to cover the driver’s fee for September, even though the month has only just started.
Adam drives us to the airport, rocketing through traffic, zipping in and out of spaces that seem too small for the car to fit, and making too-sharp turns. “You know, if cooking doesn’t work out,” I say, “you could always get a job as a stunt driver in Hollywood.”
He laughs. “Only if I do not have to play the villain.”
“Never,” I say. “Always the hero.”
The departure lanes are flooded with cars and taxis, but Adam manages to squeeze the car into a spot between a battered taxi and a shiny Mercedes. He takes our bags from the trunk, and when they are lined up in a neat row on the curb, it is time for the real good-bye. There are people all around us—just like when we arrived—and some of them might be staring at my beautiful mother or my tattooed dad, but my eyes are locked on Adam. My vision blurs as he shakes hands with Dad and accepts a hug from Mom. The tears spill over when Adam and I are as alone as we can be at a crowded airport, standing face-to-face.
“I want you to have the best life,” I say. “Even if I’m not a part of it.”
He kisses me good-bye in front of my parents, in front of everyone, his hands on my face and my fingers tangled in his hair. The moment is sweet and perfect and it obliterates my heart. He strokes my cheek one last time. “Ma’a salama.”
“Good-bye.”
I follow my parents through the sliding doors into the airport, which makes me shiver after living in the Cairo heat. I look back. Adam is leaning against the car—just like always—and I’m flooded with longing. To run back to him. To stay. He touches his hand to his chest and then walks around to the driver’s door. I start to wave, but a random shoulder bumps against mine, forcing me to pay attention to where I am going. When I look back once more—through yet another haze of tears—Adam is gone.
CHAPTER 34
Memories of Cairo are never very far from my mind, especially in New York City, where a sound or a scent (or some random guy hitting on me as I walk to class) will send me back. I think about Adam Elhadad more than I should, too. My parents assumed I would get over him with time. Owen thought we could be a couple again, as if Egypt never happened. And sometimes—when I was playing soccer on my own team or sitting in class with my old friends—it felt as if Cairo was nothing more than a dream. But the catch in my chest whenever I remember Adam reminds me that he was real.
Today the sway of the N train transports me to a crowded ladies’ car on the metro. Especially when, across the aisle, an elderly lady reads her Bible. I watch her for a few seconds, then look out the window at the October sky and smile to myself as the memories overtake me again.
The sky is bright blue and the air is crisp. Cool enough for a sweater but not so cold that I need my coat. I wear my favorite scarf—the red one with multicolored tassels—that I bought at the Friday Market. My new roommate, Maggie, thinks I’m an Egyptophile because my bed is draped with an Egyptian quilt, a tapestry hangs on my side of the room, and a star-shaped lantern decorates my desk along with a little stuffed camel. On move-in day, I told her I’d lived in Cairo for a few months last year. I like Maggie, but I don’t know her well enough yet to admit I have all these things because they make me feel like I’m still there—a little bit, at least.
As the train passes over the East River, I glance down at the postcard in my hand. On the front is a sunset-over-the-pyramids scene with GREETINGS FROM CAIRO (my Arabic is slowly improving) written across the bottom. Super touristy, just like the rest of the postcards pinned to the bulletin board over my desk. The first one arrived about a month after I got back to Ohio. It was a picture from Khan el-Khalili and on the back it said: “If there is a way to stop myself from thinking about you, I have yet to discover it.”
The soccer team captainship had gone to someone else, Hannah was still crazy in love with Vlad, and Owen wasn’t really speaking to me. So I sent back a postcard with a picture of Lake Erie that said: “My life doesn’t fit me anymore.”
Every month since then we have traded postcards with single-line snapshots of our lives. From me: “Good-bye, Sandusky. Hello, Fordham.” From him: “Finally I am on the other side of the kitchen door.” On the back of this card is an Egyptian postage stamp and a New York City address with the message: “Go to my cousin’s restaurant. There will be a gift there for you.”