Mama and Faizah haven’t spoken in nearly ten years, and Mama can’t banish the idea that her sister knows where Hanadi is and won’t tell. Muneer has never told her about the private investigator.

In the beginning, Auntie Faizah swore to God three times that she had no idea where they were. Mama had tried to believe her—what a sin to think her sister would swear to God on a lie!—but one weekend soon after, as she was about to join a gathering at their younger sister Fahmah’s apartment, she saw Faizah’s black sandals on the mat outside. The sight of those shoes, of the imprints Faizah’s toes had made in the insoles, caused hatred to possess Mama like a fever. The way to exorcise it was to never come within a centimeter of Faizah ever again, she has told him time and again. She didn’t set foot in Fahmah’s place that night, and everyone—Faizah included—knows she will not enter a room Faizah’s perfume has wafted into.

At first, Muneer’s grandmother tried to persuade Mama to talk to her sister Faizah. “You’re both from my womb. You want me to die of sorrow because my daughters won’t speak? It’s not your sister who did this thing to you.”

Mama refused to back down.

Tonight, Muneer lets her talk. One topic winds into the next. She is annoyed because he can’t take her to the dressmaker. The wedding is in a week, but Muneer’s mother insists there’s time for a new dress to be made with the gray silk she bought a few months ago. Bandar’s wife employs two Filipina seamstresses in an annex behind his villa. Muneer reminds her he will be in America, but he’ll be back in time to take her to al-Madinah for the wedding. She pouts.

“Can’t Bandar send you his driver?” he says.

She sighs and begins clearing the food, though Muneer hasn’t finished eating. “My granddaughter, surrounded by kaffirs—to think of it makes my head throb. I pray to God you find her on this next trip.”

“Maybe you should take a Tylenol or read Surat al-Fatihah,” Muneer says. He separates a cinnamon stick from a green bean and mixes more sauce into his rice.

Mama sets a dish down and removes her glasses. She rubs her eyes, her temples.

“I should lie down. People say I should have found you a bride years ago. I pray for you every day. I’ve prayed for you at the Haram in Makkah, asked God to guide you. I’ve prayed for you at the Prophet’s Mosque in al-Madinah. I’ve prayed for your daughter, and I’ve prayed for her mother. What more can we do? God will lead you to a bride.”

He doesn’t want to tell her he already has a bride in mind.

MADINAH WEDDING