“We go to the zoo!” Souad upends a cup of orange juice.
“Souad!” Alia swats Souad’s hand and begins to blot the juice. Souad’s face turns thunderous. Karam intervenes from across the table, leaning forward on his elbows.
“You want to see the peacock?” Karam asks. “Or the camel?”
For an instant, Souad’s face wavers between tears and curiosity; curiosity wins out. “The camel,” she says. “With the big head.”
“Even the zoo will be hot,” Alia says. “I think somewhere indoors is better.”
You’re unbelievable, you know that? Atef turns to Riham. “Don’t worry, duckie. Today’s your day.”
“Zoo!” Souad cries out, but Atef keeps his eyes on Riham. The girl shreds the pita bread, a nervous habit. She looks up at Atef.
“It’s okay, Baba,” she says. “I like the zoo.”
“We’re going to the dunes,” he says helplessly to the table. “It’s Riham’s birthday.”
“It’s my birthday!” Souad calls out.
“Hush,” Atef says. “We’ll do whatever Riham wants today. Mama knows that.”
He widens his eyes at Alia. Temporary cease-fire. It’s her birthday. Irritation travels across her face, then passes. She pushes the napkins away from her, leaving a slick trail on the table.
“Of course,” Alia says primly. “Habibti, whatever you want.”
“I want to go to the zoo,” Riham says, her eyes on the torn pieces of bread. “The dunes are really far. Besides”—the perky, bright voice that breaks Atef’s heart—“this way we get to see the deer again.”
“But the zoo’s going to be hot—” Alia begins, and Atef glares at her. You’ve done enough. She falls silent.
“Camel! Camel!” Souad turns to Karam and demands, “Make the lion noise.” The boy obligingly growls.
Atef leans over and taps the table in front of Riham. She looks up. “I’ll take you next weekend,” he whispers. “Just us. We’ll get shawarma for the trip.” The girl’s eyes shine.
“Souad,” Riham calls out. “Do you want to see the elephant or the tiger?”
Souad considers. “I want,” she says slowly, “to see the tiger eat the elephant.” In spite of themselves, they all laugh, even Alia, who reaches over to ruffle Souad’s curls.
“You barbarian,” Alia says, and they laugh even harder.
The zoo is at the outskirts of town, past the marketplace. The children pile into the back of the car, Souad in the coveted middle seat, dangling her feet. Alia fidgets with the car radio, turning up the volume too loud and humming along. As he drives, Atef peers into the rearview mirror, stealing glances at the children as they chatter.
“I’d be an eagle,” Souad is saying. “No, a bear.”
“Bears live in the forest,” Riham says patiently. “Think of something in the desert.”
“Bear!”
“What about a snake?”
“Okay! A snake.” Souad makes a hissing sound and the other two children pretend to cower.
He is lifted, as always, by the sight of so many people in the car, bickering and talking and laughing, this family, his family. Atef’s own father had been more mythical than real for him, his mother made zealous with grief after he died. The only memories he has of his entire family together are at funerals and Eid dinners.
“Take me with you,” Alia sings along to the radio. Despite her sunglasses and the way she bobs her head to the music, he knows she is furious. With him. He feels a pang of remorse, for breakfast and the quarrel last night. Their arguments have the quality of a monsoon, gaining momentum, as they batter against each other until, finally, they flounder uselessly as shorn branches.
“We won’t stay long,” he says now, as a peace offering.
“Widad said to be back by five.” She raises the volume more.
He tries another tactic. “Priya’s making that fruitcake,” he says in a stage whisper. Alia turns to him. In her large, glossy sunglasses, he sees his face duplicated.
“She’ll like that.” Her tone turns mischievous. “But Widad’s going to be annoyed.”
Atef grins. “Remember the party for Ghazi?”
“‘I told you not to bring a thing!’” Alia mimics Widad’s high, anxious tones perfectly.
“And the thing about the chicken.” Atef laughs.
“‘What are we going to do with two of them?’”
They laugh companionably. Alia settles back into the seat, her curls unbrushed around her face. In profile, she still looks young, all angles—cheekbones, square jaw, strong nose. As she tilts her head back and begins to sing again, he glimpses her former self, the girl who teased him for ironing his ties. The likeness is breathtaking. He plucks these moments when they come, gathers them as proof—though of what, he is unsure. Love? Permanence?
Years ago, in Umm Mustafa’s garden, Atef had been dazed at the sight of Alia. Sitting with her unbrushed hair, her feet propped on a chair as she cracked pumpkin seeds with her teeth, he’d been jolted by a memory of sitting in the mosque as a boy, sneaking his eyes open during prayer to watch dust motes sparkle in the sunlight. The two things merged in his mind—Alia, the memory of the mosque—making the meeting seem holy, a manifestation of fate.
This is why he writes the letters, he knows. Thousands of times he has thought of coming to her, dropping them in her lap. Begging her. This is what really happened, all those years ago. It’s all in there. This is why we don’t talk about your brother. You always said you wanted to know, and now you do.
When he remembers that afternoon, he can forgive her everything—the resentment, the detachment, the way she is cruel at times, going off for long summers in Amman and returning tan and happy, sighing when she walks through the house as though she has been on furlough and is now returned to her prison. But he has known Alia for half his life, and with those years is the understanding that if she knew the truth about Mustafa, she would never return to Atef.
At the entrance of the zoo, families line up in front of the ticket booth. The gate is covered in chipped paint. Up ahead, children skip in front of their parents, yelping and laughing. The sky is blue and clear, unfurled like satin.
“Five,” Atef tells the young Indian man at the booth. As they walk ahead, the children discuss where to go first. “Riham chooses,” he calls.
“The monkeys!” Her favorite. When she was younger, he’d perch her on his shoulders to pitch grapes into the cages. Once, a larger monkey swatted some baby monkeys for eating them and Riham began to cry.
After the monkeys they go to the deer, then the jackals. The cages are halfheartedly decorated with painted backgrounds and fake plants. The animals stare back at them with bored, unfathomable eyes. Atef feels bad for them, listless from the heat. The sun is dizzying, and when they pass the ice cream shack, he buys the children shaved ice.
“I should’ve let her wear the pajamas,” Alia says as Souad dribbles red ice onto her collar.
“We’ll wash it.” Atef smiles down at Souad’s sticky face.