“I’ll improvise,” she says. “This is personal. Between women.”
As we wait outside, my dad buys a little of everything—oranges, tomatoes, a head of cabbage, broccoli, lemons, bananas, even a rutabaga—from a wrinkled old lady behind a wooden market stall that looks like it’s one strong gust of wind away from toppling over. Mr. Elhadad watches, his mouth turned down in disapproval, as Dad doesn’t bother trying to haggle. He probably gives the woman more than the asking price, too.
Mom comes out of the clinic with the young woman, who is smiling and saying shokran over and over.
“Did you get it all sorted out?” Dad asks.
“I did.” Mom doesn’t elaborate, but she is smiling too.
On the ride back to the apartment, I can’t stop thinking about the girl in Manshiyat Nasr. I am fully aware that girls my age get pregnant all the time, but it’s never happened inside my realm of experience. Most girls I know are still trying to figure out how to talk to boys, so the idea of being a married teenager—at least I assume she is married—with a baby boggles my mind. I can’t help but wonder if she ever wishes for a life beyond Garbage City. Or maybe the Egyptian dream is different from the American dream. It’s possible she has everything she wants.
The sun is high and the heat is suffocating by the time we arrived back at the apartment. In the elevator, I ask Mom what happened with the girl at the clinic.
“I gave her an unopened package of tissues from my bag and showed her the proper way to clean away the discharge,” she says. “Then I told her as best I could, using gestures when necessary, that if she didn’t have access to clean water, she should put a couple drops of breast milk in the baby’s eye instead.”
“Seriously?”
My mother nods. “It contains good bacteria, the kind that could help speed the healing process. It’s a homeopathic thing and not proven science, but it’s clean and, in this situation, better than using a questionable water source.”
“You are so hard-core, Mom.”
“This job . . .” She blows out a long breath and leans her head against Dad’s shoulder. “It’s going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
CHAPTER 5
I try to respond to Hannah’s e-mail, but I am not sure how to explain that Cairo is both better and worse than I imagined. The heat is like living under a blanket. The dust of the city sneaks in through every crack, every day. And it is never, ever quiet. I am not comfortable here—we’ve been in Egypt less than a handful of days, and my bedroom is the only place that even feels remotely “at home” even though everything in it still has that fresh-out-of-the-box smell.
My pink Kelleys Island stone sits on the nightstand beside a picture of Hannah, Owen, and me after Owen’s conference final game. His dirty-blond hair was damp with sweat from playing almost the entire game and we were all holding up number one fingers. I am in a strange middle place tonight because my time in Cairo has only just started, but the picture makes me long for home. My fingers fly over the keyboard.
H—
I’ve attached some pictures of my room and the view from our apartment and when I have more time, I’ll try to tell you about Cairo. You can see how gorgeous it is where we live, but not every part of the city is like this. And this is not home. I miss you guys so much. Even if it’s breaking the rules, tell Owen hi for me, okay?
. . . and back,
—C
“Hey, Caroline.” Dad’s voice comes from the other side of my bedroom door. “Adam is here to help finish the furniture. We’re coming in.”
Before I can tell my dad that I need a minute to change, he barges in. My red Liverpool tank top and denim cutoffs would be totally appropriate at home, but here I’m all bare arms and legs in front of Adam. And when I look at him, he is staring at me. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments and I see something raw there. Unguarded.
Adam Elhadad is checking me out.
His gaze drops as color rises in his face. He is not boy-next-door cute like Owen. The dark scruff along his jaw makes Adam seem older, more handsome than cute. His attention is flattering. Fluttering. Flustering. And I have no idea how to process this. I scoop up some other clothes and escape to the bathroom.
Could I be attracted to a boy like Adam Elhadad? Is that even allowed? Would my parents be okay with that? Would I be okay with that? Even after I’m covered by a blue floral tunic dress and rolled-up jeans, I don’t have the answers. Avoiding my room, I tell Mom I’m going for a walk in the neighborhood.
“Do you have your phone?”
We stopped to buy mobile phones on the way back from Manshiyat Nasr because our US plans don’t provide coverage in Egypt. The only people programmed into my new phone are my parents, Hannah, Owen (even though I’m not supposed to have him in there), and Mr. Elhadad. I pat my back pocket. “Got it.”
“Be careful.”
For the longest time, I stand in the vestibule, unsure of which direction to go. Masoud sits beside the elevator, puffing on a hookah pipe. His snowy beard makes him look old enough to be someone’s grandfather, and he watches me with dark, judgmental eyes. Like he’s just waiting for me to do something wrong.
There is a movie theater down the road, but I don’t know if the films are in English or in Arabic, or how to ask for a ticket if the person behind the glass doesn’t speak my language. The Nile looks cool and inviting, and I think maybe I could walk along the waterfront.
Back home in Sandusky, one of the best spots along the shoreline is Jackson Street Pier. Mostly it’s a parking lot for the ferries that go to Kelleys, South Bass, and Pelee Islands, but just before sunset the locals start circling in their cars, jockeying for the good spaces to open up at the end of the pier. When the weather was nice, Owen and I would ride our bikes and feed stale popcorn to the gulls. If we took his car, he would cue up “our” playlist into the stereo and, invariably, we’d be making out before the sun even went down. Overwhelmed by the nostalgia, I text him: I miss you.
As soon as I hit send, I wish I could take it back. Owen doesn’t deserve to be jerked around just because I am afraid to take my first solo step in Cairo. Tucking my phone away, I head down the sidewalk in the direction of the theater. At the very least, I can see what movies are playing.
“Hello there.” An Egyptian man falls into step beside me. He is in his late twenties with slicked-back dark hair, invasive cologne that makes my nose twitch, and a Manchester United jersey. I look down at his hands to see if he has flyers or something he’s trying to sell me, but his hands are empty. Why is he talking to me? What does he want? “I think blond girls are very sexy.”