Guilt forms brambles in my throat. “I just want to know why youdidn’t tell me the truth about her. About her family. Are they why you wouldn’t take me to visit Masr?”
Baba drops his hands to his sides and glances around, his ever-present worry of drawing attention overtaking every other concern. He gestures for me to resume our walk toward the food truck. “None of the garbage you read is true. Your mother’s family just had a bad reputation, and they didn’t treat her well. She barely escaped that house.”
His watch gleams as he scratches the prickly hairs along his jaw. “My family didn’t believe Nadine. They thought she would ruin me. They actually tried to have her arrested the first time I brought her home.”
At my raised brows, he adds, “Reputation means a lot to families in Al Qalyubia. It doesn’t help that some of them—my family included—tend to be on the superstitious side. They keep track of news from other small towns, like the ones in El Agamy, and the Haikal family had been on their radar for a while. At best, Nadine and her family were victims of a terrible curse. At worst, they were legacy murderers. Neither possibility really appealed to my parents.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I heard my father speak so much in a single turn. I didn’t dare breathe, confident he’d clamp up if I did.
“They forbade me from marrying her. When I ignored them, they disowned me. Well, not in the sense they do here, with legal paperwork and the like. They said—do you remember what ghudub means?”
“Disappointment?”
“In a sense, but stronger. When you have incurred a parent’s ghudub, you’ve basically broken their hearts and forsaken yourself as their child. After I married your mom, they didn’t want to see me anymore. Your mom’s family hated her for leaving the villa. When we realized you were on your way into the world, we wanted a fresh start. A new beginning.”
We reach the end of the short line for the burrito truck, and Baba lowers his voice. “When you were nine, your mom started … seeingthings. Hearing voices. She would be doing small tasks, unloading the dishwasher or sorting the mail, and go stiff with fear. I tried to get her to talk to someone. Our insurance covers therapy, but she refused. Then one day, I woke up to a note at the bedside table that she’d gone on a trip to El Agamy and would be back soon.”
When we reach the window of the truck, Baba orders without pause, a rare confidence shining in his voice. I listen to him with a small smile. Maybe this is where Baba’s true self hides: in the small traditions he deems sacred, the routines he follows without fail.
I wonder if my mother was the greatest risk of his life, and now he does not remember how to play it anything other than safe.
We go off to the side to wait for our orders. The gravity of our conversation seems ill-suited to the cheerfulness of the colorful truck and the smell of grilled chicken and steak.
“Did they know about me?” My voice is small, the question emerging from a wounded place I’d nearly forgotten about.
“Who?”
“Your family.”
“No, ya noor eyni. They didn’t know about you.” A sheen passes over Baba’s eyes, and in another light, I might think they were tears. “How could anyone know you without loving you?”
Damn it. Damn it anddamn him.
Baba pulls me into his arms when I start to cry.
“I didn’t want to take you to Masr because I was a coward. Not because of you. Never because of you,” he says fiercely. “You are my proudest achievement, Mina. The best part of my life. I didn’t want to risk them hurting you with their rejection. I didn’t know what I would find if I tried to get in contact with them, and I was too scared to try. You’re braver than I’ve ever been.”
His fingers tighten around my shoulders. “And your mother’s family isdangerous. They have connections everywhere. They’ll do anything to get their way—bribe, threaten, and worse. Your mother and I were worried they’d track us down if we brought you for a visit.”
Our order number is called, but Baba doesn’t budge. “None of that is an excuse. After you graduate, I’ll take you to Masr. We’ll spend the entire summer there, and we’ll make it a tradition to go visit during your school breaks. I’ll show you the beautiful country you come from.”
For so long, I dreamed of Baba offering to share Masr with me. Of us taking summer trips to Masr the way the Ahmads did, of having little stories, anecdotes, and memories that could form a bridge between my two worlds.
If only he had tried earlier.
If only he wasn’t too late.
I pull away from Baba, dragging my sleeve over my face. A blotch stains his button-down in a display of false advertising from my waterproof mascara. “They called our order.”
Shooting me another concerned glance, Baba approaches the truck. While he grabs the grease-stained paper bag, I collect myself. The headache from earlier has only gotten worse, and it won’t help if I dehydrate myself by crying out every ounce of liquid in my body.
Baba leads me to one of the tables behind the food truck and settles down, handing me my spicy chicken burrito along with a cluster of napkins and a Dr Pepper.
“Did you know you have eight middle names?” He takes a giant bite out of his carne asada burrito, squeezing sour cream all over his fingers.
“Eight? Seriously?”
“Well, they’re not on your birth certificate, but you should know them.” He wipes his mouth. “Masriyeen—and probably other North Africans and Arabs—kept excellent record of family lineages. For the longest time, the best way to do that was with certain naming conventions.So my full name is Hatem Galal Hani Omar Kareem Gad Gabar Afifi Mansour. My father’s name was Galal Hani Omar Kareem Gad Gabar Afifi Mansour, and his father’s name was Hani Omar Kareem Gad Gabar Afifi Mansour, and so on.”
