It did not. In fact, it made some new friends called shortness of breath and lethargy.
The nineties show ends, and a documentary on the Saqqara Tomb replaces it. The camera pans over the pyramids and the crowded streets of Cairo. Mystical music plays in the background. I roll my eyes, groping around the couch for where I’d dropped the remote.
“One of the oldest civilizations in the world, Egypt contains secrets beyond our wildest imaginations,” narrates the British presenter. “In Egypt, or ‘Masr,’ knowledge works in reverse. The more our archeologists learn, the less we understand about the history of this mighty, mystifying nation. Nobody, however, can dispute the importance of the Nile in every period of Egypt’s history. Sacrifices were made to the Nile in hopes of bountiful crop yields and seasonal floods.” The river comes into view, sloshing against the banks of a Nubian village, stretching past the Saqqara Tomb. “Think of the secrets lost to this timeless river. If the Nile could speak, what would it tell us?”
I finally hunt down the remote. With my uninjured arm, I mute the television in time to avoid audio for the next clip, where a bunch of British archeologists dressed in white and beige suits hold ceremonialshovels inside a tomb while a couple of actual diggers wearing galabiyas maneuver around them.
To think just a month or two ago, I would have turned up the volume on this ridiculous documentary and spent the rest of the afternoon ignoring my homework to watch it. I had been so focused on soaking up all the media on my home country that I could find; I didn’t even notice how strange or off-putting some of it was. Though, not for lack of warning. Baba had a habit of assessing the names in the opening credits of any documentary about Masr. If it didn’t pass his inspection, he would refuse to watch it with me.
Truthfully, convincing Baba to sit down and watch anything with me was tough. To rip him away from his grading, I’d turn on a Masri show—if Ahmed El Sakka, Mohamed Henedi, or Hanan Turk is involved, Baba won’t even check his emails.
Still, he never lingers past an episode or two. The documentaries irritate him, but I think the shows hurt his heart.
I only swoon a little wiping my arm clean. Progress. Who knows? Constantly sopping up blood might cure me of my phobia once and for all.
I’m all about the silver linings these days.
After I finish wrapping gauze around my upper arm, I put away the rest of the supplies and head for the fridge. I pour myself a bowl of stale cereal and climb the stairs to my bedroom. A roll of thunder shakes the house as soon as the door closes behind me.
“Ugh.” I leave my bowl on the dresser and run back downstairs, grabbing the rain buckets from the garage. Ward is no stranger to storms, especially in February. Rattling, raging sheets of rain and wind lay siege to the county, flooding the lake and making the roads unusable.
Our roof may as well be Swiss cheese for all the leaks it springs. I stick buckets in strategic locations around the living room.
I switch on all the lights, fervently hoping Baba doesn’t walk into thehouse distracted. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard the muted cry of him tripping over a bucket.
The roof creaks, the wood furrowing like a stern brow under the onslaught.
I itch to grab my phone and text Rainie. I imagine the conversation would go as a million before it had.
Me:
WW Alert!! Grab your laptop, it’s my turn to pick the movie
Rainie:
Not a WW. This is practically sunbathing weather. stop trying to force me to watchHowl’s Moving Castle
Me:
you don’t understand. he has silver hair and a long black coat and he FLIES
Rainie:
He’s a cartoon
Me:
…
you’re killing me. like actual physical pain KILLING ME
Now, Rainie would probably recommend I meander out into the street with a lightning rod just for giggles. She certainly wouldn’t speculate over whether we had an actual Ward Wailer on our hands.
The Talbots’ rusted awning rattles in the wind, nearly louder than the rain pelting the windows. A car alarm goes off in the distance, and I resign myself to napping with headphones on.
I check my phone, but there’s no alert yet. Good. Ward Wailers havethe power to bring the county—and its gridline—to its knees. I hate it when Baba is out of the house during one.
I push my curtain to the side. Sure enough, dark gray clouds hover low over our street. So much for a sunny Friday by the lake. Everyone at Canyon will be home today, too. Despondently watching their plans for the rest of the afternoon disappear in the blue afterglow of a lightning strike.
