Randah takes a stack of wrinkled blue aerograms out of her bag. “The letters my father sent your mother,” she says to Hannah. “Returned by the postal service.” She places the letters in Hannah’s hand.

Hannah holds the stack between her palms. The addresses are in English, but of course the letters themselves are in Arabic. She won’t be able to read them without someone to translate, and that means she will never be able to decipher for herself her mother’s relationship with her grandfather. She tucks the letters under her thigh, as though they are bookmarks and her legs pages, as though she can flag this time in her life.

“Come visit me this weekend,” Randah tells Hannah. “Come meet your grandmother and grandfather.”

Bubbles pop on the surface of Hannah’s soda. She sips. The carbonation tickles the top of her mouth. It never occurred to her to want to meet her mother’s parents, or that her mother had parents. She can’t recall them ever being spoken of when she and her mother were alone together in various American towns and suburbs, the kinds of places where people mistook them for Mexicans or Dominicans and Hannah’s mother didn’t try to convince them otherwise.

Hannah’s father says something in Arabic, and Randah tilts her head toward Hannah.

“We’re going to Taif this weekend,” Hannah’s father says.

The conversation teeters on the edge of argument. “Ah, Taif is very nice,” Randah says. “But you can go later.”

Hannah doesn’t know where Taif is or why they are going there, but she wants a say in this matter. So she says the word she hasn’t spoken yet. It tastes metallic and hard in her mouth: “Dad. I want to meet my grandparents.”

Her father’s eyes cloud. “Weekend after next,” he says.

“Wonderful, I will send the driver.”

Before Randah leaves, she hands Hannah the shopping bag, which contains a red velvet jewelry case, a floral skirt, a yellow blazer, and white flats. So many gifts! Hannah lays the clothes on the seat cushion beside her and opens the case. Inside is a small turquoise amulet with gold calligraphy. She rubs the smooth surface with her thumb.

“It’s beautiful. What does it say?”

“‘Oh, Protector,’” Randah says. “Put it on!”

“She can wear it later,” Hannah’s father says. Hannah freezes. Should she put it away? Should she put it on?

Randah decides for her by grabbing her hand, gently lifting her fingers, and filching the chain and pendant from her.

“Very simple to put it on,” Randah says, looping the chain around Hannah’s neck. She’s wearing a V-neck tee, and the pendant adheres to her chest.