“What’s gotten into you?
“What?”
“You’re so”—Alia wrinkles her nose—“chirpy.”
He feels a childish hurt. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says spitefully, then raises his voice. “Isn’t it, kids? Isn’t it a beautiful day?” The children turn and nod, clamoring to get to the elephants. He tilts his head to Alia. “See? Everyone’s happy.” But you. He cannot help but feel satisfaction at the annoyance on Alia’s face. It quickly dissolves into shame. It’s Riham’s birthday, he tells himself.
“It’s good to see them so excited,” he says, contrite. “It makes me happy.”
Alia’s face softens and he feels an urge to kiss her. You love that woman too much, his mother had told him before the wedding.
“That’s nice,” Alia says now, trailing her fingers on his wrist. She speaks loud enough for the children to hear. “But Karam’s already getting sunburned. Did you see his cheeks? I knew it would be too hot.”
He pulls his hand away. “Your daughter’s enjoying herself,” he mutters. “That should matter more than being right.” Even beneath the sunglasses, Alia’s expression is a kaleidoscope of hurt and anger and, finally, retreat.
You look beautiful in red. I miss you. Remember that afternoon in your mother’s garden? I was watching you earlier. You look exactly the same.
After circling the zoo twice, they pile back into the car, Souad punctuating the trip to Widad’s house with various animal sounds. Alia turns the radio on, stares out of the window. At Widad’s compound entrance, Atef turns left and goes past the villas. There are already several cars parked in the driveway.
“That’s Sahar’s dad’s car!” Riham calls. “And Miriam’s. So many people!”
At her happy voice, Atef and Alia glance at each other and—as though galvanized at once—Alia turns off the music, Atef cuts the engine, and they turn to their three children, smiling.
“There are, sweetheart,” Alia says.
“Ready to have some fun, everyone?”
The children laugh and say yes. Doors clank open; seat belts are unbuckled. The fight, formally, is over.
For the cake, they seat Riham at the head of the table, Souad and Karam at either side. Widad has decorated the table with garlands of flowers and silver balloons tied to the chairs. The guests have piled gifts with colorful wrapping paper and ribbons. There are children from Riham’s school, Atef and Ghazi’s coworkers, the circle of friends they’ve made over the years. The girl looks dazed with joy, shy from the evening’s attention, the adults complimenting her dress and calling her aroos.
Alia lights the nine slender candles on the cake and nods at Ghazi standing in the doorway.
“To the birthday girl!” Ghazi calls out as he turns off the light. Everyone cheers, suddenly bathed in candlelight. Souad stands on her chair and claps.
“Chocolate,” she calls out.
“Hush,” Alia says, smiling, and begins to sing. “Happy birthday to you.” The others join in. Atef stands and watches: Karam hugging Riham as he sings, Souad’s grinning face. And Riham—she leans toward the cake, exquisite in her delight. Emotion engulfs him, tears springing to his eyes, his view a tangle of candlelight and figures. Mustafa, you should see the way they sang for her, Alia’s voice carrying above all the others. He takes a breath and recites: He has a daughter. Three healthy children. A safe home. He is here, surrounded by these lovely, warbling voices.
The singing ends and everyone applauds, whistling and calling as Riham leans toward the cake, blows through her pursed lips. The candles waver and go out.
“More fire!” Souad cries and the adults laugh. Ghazi turns the lights back on, and the women begin to slice the cake, calling the children to sit and eat. After several moments, Alia walks over to him, balancing two plates of cake.
“Those children are savages,” she says. “There’s nearly none left. I managed to salvage this.” Atef notices that she has lined her eyelids with kohl.
“Thanks,” Atef says, taking the plate.
“I saw you,” Alia murmurs. Atef looks away, swallowing. And yet, buried beneath the shame is a tentacle of hope—she watches him. He is touched by this.
Unexpectedly, she leans her head on his shoulder. How infrequently they touch, really touch, not brushed fingertips but their bodies aligning with each other’s, naked and feverish. When they were younger, newly wed, every second alone had been stunning. It felt like a stolen galaxy, the kisses, lips trailing skin.
He sighs and eats his cake. Against him, Alia’s body is relaxed, rising with each breath. It is unnecessary, to always lust for the past. He knows this. There is no good in greediness.
As guests begin to leave, Widad and Alia wrap up the food and the remaining men go outside.
“A smoke?” Ghazi asks but Atef shakes his head. Instead, he walks through the house, looking for an empty room. The clamor of the evening has tired him. His head is beginning to ache, the tendrils of a migraine unfolding. In the guest bedroom, a group of children play in a semicircle. Karam is helping Souad build a tower with Legos, one of Riham’s birthday gifts. Atef catches Souad’s eye and blows her a kiss.
At the end of the hallway is Ghazi’s study, the scent of leather and smoke pungent as Atef opens the door. It is dark, and it takes him a second to see the figure sitting on the windowsill behind the desk, her silhouette outlined by the open window.
“Riham?” The girl startles, turns around. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m making a wish.” Her voice is small.
“You forgot to make one earlier?” He smiles as he walks toward her. “What did we pile that cake with candles for?”
“In the old days, people used to do this,” Riham says, turning back toward the window. Outside the moon is a crescent, slender as a fingernail in the sky. “I read about it. They’d make their wishes by the moonlight. They believed that smoke carried the wish all the way up.”
She taps the windowsill beside her, a white candle next to a box of matches. Atef moves closer to catch another glimpse of the moon.
“How’d they do it?”
Riham leans her head against the window frame. “They would light a candle and hold it up to the moon.”
“And then?” Atef asks. He is drowsy from the food and the dark and Riham’s voice.
She smiles beatifically, her face suddenly much older. “And then you blow it out.”
They both look up at the thin moon. Atef thinks of his bookish daughter reading about the old days and birthdays, hoarding that knowledge like a jewel until today. It saddens him, the thought of her slipping away to make wishes.