My father destroys me. He has always been terribly, desperately human. Mama was larger than life. Someone who could walk into a disaster and neutralize it without skipping a beat. I never worried about her, never wondered if she’d remembered to eat dinner or refill her prescriptions.
I don’t know when loving Baba started to feel like I was holding my breath, waiting for the universe to give me permission to exhale.
He glances up, a ready smile at his face, and visibly startles at the sight of me. “Mina!” He shoves his chair back. It slams into the shelf, and he struggles to stand in the tight crevice. He switches to Arabic, a clear sign he’s panicked. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Baba,” I say, amused and a little sad. He would’ve been less surprised if someone showed up at his table with a hunting rifle. I’m an intrusion in this slice of life he’s carved without me.
The seed of a headache from earlier has grown, and I hide my grimace before Baba can see it and call 911. His reactions to my pain have ranged from staying up all night to check my breathing after I coughed a few times at dinner to blasting through ten stoplights to get to the ER becauseI threw up chunky blood (also known as Twizzlers, six packs of which I’d snuck to my room and devoured at the ripe age of ten).
“Can you take a quick walk with me?” I ask Baba.
He glances at his mess of papers and then at Noura, who waves away his concern. “Just leave it, Hatem. I don’t mind, and no one else is coming back here.”
With Noura’s blessing, Baba follows me out of the silo of shelves. We go down the stairs without speaking, and only when we’ve stepped out of the library and into the quad does he break the silence.
“Let’s get you something to eat,” Baba says.
I open my mouth to protest and think better of it. He’s tapping his loafer and glancing over my head, clearly excited to show me to a food spot nearby. This campus is his home. He spends far more time inside these buildings than under the roof we’d once shared with Mama. Here, he’s not Hatem Mansour, widow and single father. He is Professor Mansour, a man with a crush on a nice librarian and research that keeps his days busy.
As angry as I am, I can’t bring myself to ruin it for him. I want him to think of me here. When he does, I want him to remember it warmly.
“Sure.”
Baba tugs on the sleeves of his blazer while we meander across campus and clears his throat. A bittersweet fondness tugs in my chest. Serious conversations have never been Baba’s strong suit.
Students shuffle around us, headphones on and gazes aimed at the ground. Laughter rings in the distance, sweetening the air.
“Why have you never taken me to Masr?”
The setting sun breaks through the clouds just in time to illuminate Baba’s features slackening in surprise. Years have passed since the last time I asked him this question.
“You were busy with school and your friends. Your dance team.” He looks away. “I didn’t want to disrupt your plans.”
In one burst of light, the lamps across campus flicker on.
And behind every person we pass, a shadow appears.
Regular shadows. Normal, physics-approved shadows.
I tear my gaze away and stop walking. “Or you didn’t want me to find out you married a monster.”
Baba also stops, turning to face me. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Excuse me?”
I had a plan. I was going to wait until we were seated somewhere private, ask him how his day was going, andthendemand to know why he’d made vows to a serial killer. “She was in the news, Baba. They’d investigated her family fordecades.” I shake my head, disgust warring with anger. “You married Nadine Haikal knowing exactly who she really was.”
When I say Mama’s maiden name, Baba jerks as though I’ve shot him. Horror fills his brown eyes to the brim and overflows.
“Yasmina. What did you do?”
I threw my arms out. “I didsomething,Baba! I didn’t just hide myself in books and libraries and pretend everything was fine! I knew Mama’s death wasn’t normal. I knew someone was lying to me, but I never expected—” My voice breaks. “I never expected that person to beyou.”
“What. Did. You. Do?” In two strides, Baba is in front of me, hands on my shoulders. “Tell me!”
The force of his anguish clamps my jaw shut. If I tell him I snuck off for two weeks and met Khalto Safa, he might actually suffer some kind of collapse.
“Just random research, Baba. I found articles about El Agamy and saw Mama’s picture in one of them.”
Relief floods Baba, and his hold on my shoulders turns gentle, apologetic. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Mina. I can’t imagine what kind of shock that must have been for you.”
