Even when she doesn’t remember—and this is more difficult to put into words, those moments of inundation when she scrambles to piece herself together—she knows something is wrong. They are all faces to her, kind, alien mouths and eyes. They want to give her water, tea, bread. They bring her blankets and ask what she thinks of the weather. They want to know if she is hungry, if there is anything she wants.
The television is always on. Waking and sleeping and eating, Alia can hear its sounds. Occasionally they watch a movie or music video, bursts of color and girls dancing to the thump-thump-thump of a drumbeat. But usually it is the news channel, solemn newscasters speaking of solemn things. Even when the living room is empty, the newscasters continue to talk.
What they say never changes. There is a war, Alia knows. She understands this intuitively; in fact, it seems to her the only truth she holds immutable. There is a war. It is being fought and people are losing, though she is uncertain who exactly.
A young girl wears nothing but dirt. An explosion has dismantled a city. People gather the entrails of their families. A man sets himself on fire. A man burns a flag. A man holds a woman underwater. A man hangs from a tree. A man is eaten by flies.
They talk about it.
“I don’t think she should be listening to this.”
“What can we do? I need to know what’s happening. Besides, she doesn’t—”
“She shouldn’t be seeing these things!”
The newscaster says dictator and there is a photograph of a man with pale skin and a mustache. Remembering flickers within Alia; she once found the man attractive. The man is sending wolves to eat his people, the newscaster says, and Alia pictures a snowy hillside atop which the man stands, his aquamarine eyes narrowed. He whistles and dozens of creatures snarl. Strike. Their gray bodies streak the hillside as they rush the villages, pounce on children and men. Instead of paw tracks, they trail bones.
“Turn it off.”
“She’s not even watching.”
It isn’t wolves. Alia knows that. It is men. Regular men, with their own mustaches and beards and slender wrists. They are taking these cities by fire, upending the houses and eating all the bread. They are lining children up and taking their dresses, shooting them in the mouths. A wolf can be killed. Trapped, skinned. But Alia knows that certain men—she remembers them, with their flags and their teeth—have skin like steel, are reborn into other men in the morning, grow more terrible, more powerful, with each sun.
“Look. She’s sleeping.”
There is a knock at the bedroom door. Alia keeps her face against the pillow.
“Mama.” The door opens. “Mama, remember, we’re going out today. Remember? What would you like to wear?”
Alia hates the shake in her voice when she says, “I’m tired.”
“It’s time to wake up.” The voice is firmer now. Footsteps, a swishing sound. Sunlight fills the room. Alia scrunches her eyes shut. The woman sighs. “Mama, open your eyes.”
A moment passes. Alia peeks. The woman stands above the bed. She wears a gauzy dress, her hair cropped short as a boy’s. She looks anxious as she scans Alia’s face.
“Atef . . .”
The woman’s eyes light up. “Baba’s in the living room. Come and see him.”
Alia leans on her daughter’s arm, padding heavily down the hall. Her hip is excruciating if she steps the wrong way. She fell in the bathroom months ago and something shattered. There was a hospital room for a long time after that, a television playing the same Turkish soap opera on repeat.
They reach the entryway and Alia pauses.
“It’s okay, Mama. Baba’s here.”
Atef. Alia takes a step, and the room is full of people watching television and talking. There is a platter of manakish on the coffee table, mugs of tea. The baby is in her mother’s arms, kicking her feet. Atef sits on the armchair. He smiles at the sight of Alia. They all speak at once.
“How’s the pretty mama?”
“We’re going out today, remember?”
“Teta, would you like some manakish?”
“Alia, sit.” Atef’s dark, serene eyes. Her daughter leads her to the sofa, and Alia smiles and nods as everyone speaks to her, talking of a seafood restaurant and music. Atef cuts a triangle of the manakish for her. The bread is thick and good. The baby begins to fuss, and the young man stands.
“Come here. Let’s fly.” He makes whirring sounds, the baby waving her fists and gurgling. Alia has heard talk of the baby, in hushed tones, away from the mother. They click their tongues. I can’t believe she married an American, they say.
“Teta, you want some tea?”
“We’ll have the cake afterward.”
Alia watches the young man. “Zain.” Her voice causes the others to still. The television blithely chatters on. They turn to her, smile.
“That’s right, Teta.” The man shifts the baby onto his hip. “I’m Zain.”
The baby smacks her lips and laughs.
“Give Teta a kiss.”
The child smiles flirtatiously at her. “Teta, up. Up!” Her pale eyes are dauntless. Her honeyed hair floats around her in a cloud, light but frizzy. Alia remembers a game she played with Riham and Souad and Karam, swooping their little bodies in a circle, making a whistling sound as she lands them on the floor.
She looks down at the bread. The cheer on their faces is tiring. How can she explain this fatigue to one not in her body? Decades of tired, her mother used to say.
“Mama, what would you like to wear for your special day? Umm Najwa said perhaps the gray dress.”
“Umm Najwa said she’ll do your hair, Mama. A nice braid.”
“I’m going to wear a green skirt,” the girl with kind eyes says. She sits on the arm of the couch, her shaggy hair disheveled. “Your favorite color.”
Alia tries to smile, but her throat catches. She remembers green, a wisp of fabric floating on a clothesline, her mother’s arm reaching for it. She starts to rise.
“Mama!” The tone is scolding. “You need to be careful, remember. You need to tell us when you want to get up.”
“Take me to my room.” Alia hears the tremor in her voice.
“Okay,” the woman says. Her tone turns beseeching now. “We’ll get you in a nice dress, yes? The brocade.”
“She’ll look so beautiful.”
“Like a queen.”
Behind her, the child calls out, “Up, up!”
In the bedroom Alia asks the woman to leave, and, reluctantly, she does. Being alone is intoxicating. Alia sits at the edge of the bed. There is no view of trees and flowers outside the window. Instead, there are more telephone wires, the balcony of another building. Someone has opened the window and a breeze ruffles the curtains, filling the room with salted air.
“Ya Allah,” she says aloud. Her voice is glassy to her ears.