“Ice cold, please.”
While they wait, her grandmother has a distant look in her eyes, remembering. “I cared about different things. I prayed a lot. I spent time alone.”
“Like me.”
Salma smiles. “Have you been reading the suras the imam told you about?”
“Yes.” Riham hesitates. There is something she wants to ask her grandmother, about whether she prayed after her own son was killed. The adults rarely talk about him, but Riham gathers details about him like a magpie, snatched from overheard conversations: his name was Mustafa; he was five years older than her mother; he died in Palestine and no one—not her mother, not Teta—got to say goodbye. “All those deaths, the bloodshed. And then I think about what’s happening in the world now. Sometimes it seems—” Riham falters.
“That Allah is cruel.”
Riham nods. Her grandmother leans down and, unexpectedly, kisses Riham on her forehead. She speaks lightly.
“There’s nothing wrong with having questions for Allah. It means you’re taking Him seriously.”
Since Riham can remember, her grandmother has been her favorite part of the Amman trips. She is like Khalto Widad, warm and loving, always cooking Riham her favorite meals. When Riham was younger, her grandmother would bathe her, sprinkling scented oils into the water, and braid her hair afterward. At the end of every school year, Riham tucks her report card in the sleeve of her suitcase to show her grandmother.
“You brilliant girl,” Salma says every year, hanging the report card on the refrigerator. When people come over to visit, she introduces Riham as “my smart one.”
Salma’s faith lends her a dignified air, authentic and stately in a way other veiled women are not. During Ramadan, her grandmother breaks fast not with mouthfuls of meat but rather a single olive and a sip of water, a restraint that Riham marvels at.
Sometimes she takes Riham to the mosque near her apartment, a domed edifice with a marbled courtyard. There is an imperial archway of grape leaves and vines, an inscription reading There is no Allah but Allah. Riham knows the phrase from school and is always happy to see something she recognizes.
Her grandmother gives her a scarf to knot around her head, and a long robe, white with red embroidery. Although it’s too large, the sleeves past her fingers, the hem tripping her, Riham always feels strangely beautiful following her grandmother up the stairs, into the suddenly cool, dark entrance. They step out of their sandals before entering the mosque, place them alongside the others. The carpet is scratchy beneath her bare feet.
Inside the mosque, women speak with her grandmother eagerly, and Riham understands that Salma is loved.
“Pretty scarf, Khalto.”
“How are the tomatoes this summer, Khalto?”
“Fine, fine. Strong and red. You should come by and pick some for your children.”
“Inshallah.” Last week, an elderly man approached them. “Dear Salma, is this your granddaughter?”
“It is.” A smile unfolded across her grandmother’s face. “This is the lovely Riham. Riham, this is Imam Zuhair.”
“Riham.” The imam smiled, thousands of wrinkles crinkling his eyes. Riham instantly liked him, the way he inclined his head slightly to her. “It’s an honor.”
“Your mosque is beautiful.” The words came out stammered, and Riham blushed. She sounded stupid to her own ears, childish.
He looked around at the rows of Qur’ans lining the walls, the green carpet, people sitting in the corners, praying. Light poured in through the large windows.
“Why, yes.” He spoke as though startled. “It is beautiful.” He turned to Salma. “Your granddaughter sees beauty even in the well worn. This is a gift.”
Later that day, when they were praying, and Riham touched her forehead on the carpet, kneeling and rising with the other bodies; she shut her eyes and let herself be carried by the sounds of the mosque, the rustle of feet on the floor, the fragrance of incense, carried and then returned gently to the earth.
Alia and Khalto Mimi smoke one cigarette after the other as they talk, the smell thick in the air. Riham watches their mouths, every few minutes looking up from her book.
“I can’t believe the summer’s almost over.”
“I know, back to Kuwait.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to return for Eid?”
“Probably not. The children’s school—”
“I hate school,” Souad says.
“Sous, your turn.”
Souad returns her attention to the game of chess with her grandmother, the pieces streaked from wear, weeks of salt water and sun eroding them.
“I’m roasting.” Khalto Mimi sighs, inspecting her shoulders. “Remember how awful returning to school was? The girls are positively depressed about it.”
“Not Riham,” Alia says. She eyes Riham thoughtfully. “Are you looking forward to starting school?”
Riham thinks about her school, the air-conditioned classrooms, the way the teachers love her, especially Madame Haddad, the librarian who saves the new books for Riham to read first. She thinks about her friends, who are quiet and awkward, never telling her to straighten her hair.
“I can’t wait,” Riham says softly.
“Bravo.” Khalto Mimi blows a stream of smoke. “Teach my lazy girls.”
“Exactly,” Salma says. “That’s what will last. A good brain, hard work.”
“Yes,” Alia says with an uncertain smile, and Riham knows her mother is thinking of Mira and Lara, off somewhere getting lunch in their sundresses, giggling about boys. “Yes.”
Alia and Khalto Mimi begin unwrapping sandwiches. Souad, bored of the chess game, wanders over to the water and comes back with handfuls of shells.
“Look!” she calls, standing over the towels. Sand scatters over them. “I found a bunch of big ones.”
“Goddamn it, Souad.” Alia shakes sand off the sandwiches as Souad sits.
“I’m trying to keep myself busy. That’s what you said to do.” Souad imitates their mother’s voice perfectly. “‘Souad, Mimi and I are talking. No, you can’t go play with Mira and Lara. Keep yourself busy.’”
The tops of Khalto Mimi’s large, greasy breasts jiggle. “That’s pretty good, Aloush. She should be an actress.”
Alia pulls her sunglasses off and slits her eyes toward Souad, but Riham can hear the laughter in her voice. “Mannerless! I need to raise you all over again.”
“You can raise her after you feed me,” Khalto Mimi says. Alia unwraps a foiled sandwich.
“Honey or cheese?”
“Cheese.”
“Mama?”
“Half of each, please.”
“Those boys are getting louder and louder.” They all turn to watch the group of boys kicking a football near the shore. One kicks the ball straight up and uses his head to jounce it, sends it soaring in the direction of their towels.
“I can kick better than that,” Souad says, scrambling to her feet.