“The doctor’s great with her.”
“I bet it’s a good sign.” Souad looks up from her phone. “If they’d found something, he’d be hollering at us to come in.” She pronounces hollering incorrectly, her Arabic dwindled after so many years abroad. Your daughter, the Amrikiyeh, Alia scoffs.
The thought of his wife, hawkish and strident, hurts and Atef stands. “I’ll get us something to drink. Coffee? Juice? There’s a dikaneh across the street.”
“I’ll go, Baba,” Karam says, but Atef waves him off.
“The walk will do me good.”
“Coffee,” Karam says. “Sugarless for me.”
Atef turns to his daughters. “And you?”
“Sprite.”
“Orange juice.”
Leaving the hospital is a relief, the sun lovely upon his face. He walks rapidly, as though shedding the place, tall buildings on either side, hospitals and businesses and banks. Atef turns past an outdoor café where a group of young women sit, smoking cigarettes and chatting. One of the women wears a sleeveless dress, showing arms covered in intricate, colorful tattoos. This is the Amman that is coming, the future—inked women, beautiful gay boys, youth and subversion. Atef is strangely cheered by the thought.
On his way back, as he approaches the clinic entrance, he sees someone waving her arms. Souad.
“Baba! We’ve been looking for you,” she cries. “The doctor’s finished.”
The office seems starker, the doctor grim behind his desk. A nurse has taken Alia to another room and Atef wishes he could go to her.
“Many of the tests won’t be back for a few days. But I’d like to talk about preliminary impressions.”
Madame Yacoub, the doctor says, is changing. Atef notices for the first time the diplomas hanging in their gilded frames, the calligraphy elegant and precise. They look imperial.
“It’s not good news,” the doctor says matter-of-factly.
They listen. The doctor’s words fall, oil drops in water, beads, sliding over Atef. He watches his daughters’ faces, his son’s. The words float in and out, as though Atef is submerged, lifting his head above water every few minutes.
“In terms of cure . . . what will happen . . . to prepare yourself . . . research is showing . . .” Atef feels drunk watching the man’s mouth move. Suddenly, everyone is rising, Karam shaking hands with the doctor.
“I’ll see you next week,” Munla says. “I’ll have more information then.” He shakes Atef’s hand, and Atef doesn’t want to let his hand go.
They find Alia in the waiting room. Outside, they stand dully in the atrium. Atef crosses and then uncrosses his arms. “I guess we go home now.”
Souad sniffles. She embraces her mother.
Alia frowns and leans back, eyes her daughter sharply. “What have you done?”
And in spite of themselves, even as Souad cries, they all laugh.
The traffic is bad and by the time they reach the house—a silent car ride, even the radio crackling in protest—the sun has already set. Umm Najwa is standing outside the house, smoking. She drops the cigarette as they climb out of the car. She scans their faces hard, then nods. “Well.”
In the foyer of the house, a metallic scent greets them. Souad drops her purse, sniffs.
“Goddamn it. I told them to turn the oven off.” Her voice rises as she stalks off. “Did I or did I not tell you idiots—”
“I’m tired,” Alia grumbles.
“I’ll take you to bed,” Atef says.
“No.” Umm Najwa puts a gentle, firm hand on his arm. “I’ll do it.”
“It should be me,” he says. His mouth is terribly dry. He tries to remember the last time he drank water. Hours ago. Before the hospital.
“You go sit. Yalla,” Umm Najwa says to Alia. “Let’s get you in bed.”
“We should wait for him,” she says brightly.
They watch her warily. Finally, Atef speaks. “Who?”
Alia tilts her head, looks at Atef as though he is the one who is confused. “Mustafa.” Atef feels an invisible fist inside his stomach clench.
“He’ll come later,” Umm Najwa tells her soothingly. “Now we’ll go and take a nice bath.”
For moments after they disappear down the hallway, none of them, not Atef nor Karam nor Riham, say anything.
“It’s always going to be like this,” Karam says, the realization in his voice.
Riham shakes her head. “No.” She begins to unwind her veil. “It’s going to get worse.” She speaks plainly, which is, Atef thinks, the most Riham of responses. To accept, to welcome the bad news.
He follows them into the living room, where Abdullah, Zain, and the girls sit. Souad stands in front of them, blocking the television. Everyone looks tense.
“It was one thing,” Souad is saying. “One goddamn thing.” The children are defiantly silent.
“What happened?” Karam asks.
“The chicken is burned. All of it.” Souad glares; the children avoid her eyes. “I swear to God, I could entrust toddlers with more—”
“Mama, we get it,” Zain snaps. Souad looks taken aback, then continues.
“Oh, you get it? Really? Then tell me why we’re having fries for dinner.”
“We can order in,” Abdullah says.
“Souad,” Riham murmurs. From the foyer, the sound of a door opening and shutting.
“What’s that smell?” Budur walks in, carrying grocery bags. She had told Karam to go to the hospital with his family, respectfully busying herself for the day.
“They burned the chicken!”
“It’s just a little crisp,” Abdullah offers.
Linah and Manar whisper something and giggle. Across the sofa Abdullah lets out a snort of laughter.
“Shut up,” Souad barks. “It’s one thing to be useless, it’s another to be insolent.”
“We can order in?” Budur says innocently. Karam shakes his head at her.
“You’re all spoiled!” Souad rants.
“Jesus Christ, no one wanted chicken anyway,” Linah mutters.
“Linah!” Budur drops the bags. The anger is contagious, rushing like wildfire between them.
“Guys, guys.” Karam holds his hands out. “Let’s all take a breath, okay? We’re tired, it’s been a long day.” He turns to the children beseechingly. “The doctor did some tests. It’s not good.”
The four faces transform.
“What happened?” Zain’s brow furrows.
“Did you tell him about the memory thing?” Abdullah asks.
“It’s Alzheimer’s,” Souad spits out. Atef wants to hit her. He watches the children—what children?—grow dismayed. Budur gasps. Zain blinks and ducks his head, and Atef wants to hug him, the boy always first to tears.
“Souad!” Riham admonishes.
“Are they sure?” Manar looks stunned. She turns to Karam. “What does that mean?”
Karam opens his mouth but Souad rushes on, furious. “It means she needs help and she’s going to keep forgetting things and what she needs is good grandchildren, not idiots who sit around watching this shit and not following directions—”
“Souad.”