“No, it’s not.” I think I want to tell her about the murals. I think she’ll believe me. I clear my throat. “Hey, Amal.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you see those murals out in the city?”
“Oh my God, yes,” she exclaims. “Stephanie hates them because our office building got an entire mural all over it. The conch and all.”
I scratch the wall. “What do you think of them?”
“Hmm, they’re all right. I love the colors. They remind me of how Mama used to paint in her sketchbook.”
I take a deep breath. “I think—”
“Okay, I can’t do this. Jihad, can you come back here? There’s something else I need to tell you.”
This time when my stomach twists on itself, it doesn’t stop. Something terrible is going to happen when I walk back into the living room.
Amal stands in the middle, fidgeting with her fingers and wearing an incredibly guilty expression.
I stare at her silently because my mouth won’t move. No sound would come out even if it did. I’m beyond terrified.
She swallows hard, pressing two fingers to massage her forehead.
“Marwan and I have been trying for a while,” she begins in a forced calm voice. “A month or so after we decided we wanted to have kids, Mama…Mama was gone. I—I couldn’t think of anything at the time but what happened. But then, I started thinking again. I want to have a baby; so does Marwan. We started looking for jobs outside of New York. We got a lot of rejections. But before we found out I’m pregnant, Marwan got an offer in Qatar. It all just came together.”
She goes silent, waiting for me to say something. But I don’t understand.
“Jihad, Marwan and I are moving to Qatar.” She moves toward me. Everything is happening in slow motion. “He signed the contract last week. We already have an apartment. A duplex, actually. The company will pay the rent. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. We could actually buy a house there because there’s no interest. Everyone’s Muslim. I won’t have to be scared I’ll be shot in the streets just for existing. My baby will go to school where I won’t worry every day there’ll be a school shooting, just praying they come back home. I’ll live in a place that’s home. It won’t be gh’erbe.”
She holds my arms, and I immediately push her away.
“You’re leaving?” I ask in a choked voice. “After everything—after—you’re leaving? You’re leaving me too?”
Her face crumples. “Jihad, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are!” I shout. “You’re leaving meherealone. How could youdothis? You’re selfish; that’s what you are!”
“Jihad,” she says, lips trembling. “Listen—”
“Save it! Leave everything to me. Let me deal with Baba and all this shit while you go off and have an amazing life!”
Amal moves to grab my arms again to pull me to her. But I shake her off, and with cold hands, I tie my hair quickly before putting on my hijab.
“Jihad, please,” she pleads. “Listen to me. I’m not leaving you, okay? I’ll talk to you every day. We don’t even see each otherhereall the time. You’ll visit me in the summer. I’ll pay for your plane ticket. You could apply to universities in Qatar too. Or a job. I’mnotleaving you behind.”
I let her talk to herself as I aggressively twist the hijab around my head and neck and grab my bag.
“Jihad, talk to me.” She follows me frantically through the apartment. “Jihad, please. This isn’t about me anymore. I’m going to be amom. I have to take care of my baby.”
I wrench open the front door, and she puts a hand on it, stopping it from swinging wide. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and, at any other moment, this would have tugged at my heart. But all I see are guilt tears. Manipulation.
“You want me to be okay with this?” I snap. “Does what I think even matter? I didn’t want to go to Braxton, and you and Baba made me. I don’t want you to go to Qatar, but you will. You do whatever you want, Amal, but I’m not going to be happy for you.”
Her grip slackens on the door, and I use that to tug it open and slip out.
“Jihad!” she shouts after me, but I ignore her and run down the stairs.
There are no tears in me. I feel as if Amal has taken a knife to myback. She just said our family is small, and now it’s even smaller. It’s practically nonexistent. I want to throw back every sentence she said. How could she do this now? Mama’s been dead for over a year. Buried in a strange country that has no inklings of her home. She doesn’t even have Syria in death. How will Amal visit her grave? How could she leave her here? Haven’t we lost enough? My phone vibrates with an incoming call I know is from Amal. She hangs up and starts sending a torrent of messages. I ignore that too.
