It was an unkind comment and it bothered Siham, because she liked Layla. Siham’s father had taught her to treat everyone kindly, often stitching the wounds of villagers without taking money and even without making them feel indebted (though her mother huffed in frustration when they themselves sometimes ran out of milk and eggs). Siham liked to think that she had inherited his open heart, and she told Nader many times not to speak that way. After all, like Siham, Layla was also struggling to learn English and to get used to living here. She had been pregnant with a son, and lost him, plus Hanan was a bold child, curious and daring.

But in every other way, Nader was perfect. Once a week, he stopped at the general store on 9th Street on his way home and bought her a present. Once it was a black, satin scarf, embroidered with blue leaves on silver vines. Then a tube of her favorite Revlon lipstick, a dark burgundy shimmer. It used to cost her thirty shekels, or ten dollars, in Jerusalem’s finest drug stores. Here, in America, it was only two dollars at Eckerd. The most amusing things he bought her were Barbie dolls, the most American toy of all, with their long blonde plastic hair. The most thoughtful thing was a personal date book to keep her appointments, though for now those would be things like “Monday: Wash windows and dust ceiling fan” and “Thursday: Shine floors and do English exercises.” She practiced her English like a religion; Nader had bought her a primer and an Arab-English dictionary (yet another present) and she rehearsed her verbs for at least an hour every morning.

Anticipate.

Expect.

Wait. I wait. You wait. He/she/it waits.

One August morning, she sat on her green sofa, a used one they’d bought from a consignment store. She was embroidering a small coin purse for herself, using the black and red design of the Palestinian villages. Her English book lay open on the armrest and she read the sentences aloud, especially practicing the words with the letters “p” and “v,” which did not exist in the Arabic alphabet.

The phone rang, a not unwelcome disturbance. Siham slid across the floor to it, nearly colliding with the end table, eager to practice her English with another person. She hoped it would be one of those telephone survey people so she could get at least five minutes worth of their time.

“Is Nader home?” The voice was a woman’s, but deep and smooth, like the chords of an oud.

“No. May I please take your message?”

“Who is this?”

“I am his wife.”

“His wife!” Pause. “No, thanks. I’ll try calling later.”

Siham slid the phone back into its curved cradle. Not hearing the familiar “click,” she picked it up and replaced it firmly. Later that evening, Nader told her not to worry about it. “I don’t know who she is. If it’s important, she’ll call back.”

“But she used your first name. That means she knows you.”