“He walked home.” He paused again for effect. “Yes, he walked home from Syria to our village in Palestine. He knew Palestine was southwest of Syria, so he followed the sun until he reached the Jordan River, then he followed it south. He slept at night wherever he could, in fields and hiding out in orchards. At one point, he met up with a band of Bedouins, and he spent two months traveling with them.”

“How long did it take him?” “The journey home was long—it took him almost two full years. His family was shocked. It was like he’d returned from the dead.”

I imagined my grandfather, whom I’d only seen in a few sepiatoned photographs, arriving at his parents’ home, dusty, perhaps with long hair and a full, disheveled beard. Would they have recognized him at first? What did his mother do when she finally realized it was her son, and not a beggar, on the front step?

“I can’t believe I never heard that story before,” I said to Baba. “I’m glad you told me.”

“There are many stories,” he replied. “And I want Michael to hear them all.”

When the phone rang at half past midnight, I was awake, nursing Michael. He woke several times at night, usually every two to three hours, wailing in hunger, so I’d learned to adjust my sleep pattern as well. Afraid it would wake Aliyah, who’d gone to sleep late, I deftly snatched the phone with my left hand, supporting Michael’s head with my right. The receiver was on the table beside my bed, and I had to dodge the pacifier, tub of baby wipes, and dirty bibs that littered its surface.

“Hanan? It’s me.” My mother sounded frantic.

“What’s wrong? Is Baba OK?”

“We’re in the St. Agnes. He have heart attack.”

Aliyah offered to keep Michael with her, but I took him anyway, strapping him into the carseat in his pajamas. He was screaming because I’d interrupted his feeding session, but he quieted down as the car’s motion lulled him back to sleep.

I gave the car to the valet parking service and hurried inside, pushing Michael along in the stroller. My mother was waiting in the lobby, and we took the elevator up to the intensive care unit. We didn’t say a word, but I was tapping my foot nervously, and, in a simple, swift motion, she took my hand in her own and held it until we reached the fifth floor.

My father was heavily sedated. He looked pale, washed out, especially in a white gown lying in a bed of white sheets. A tube had been inserted in his throat, and a monitor tracked his heart rate. It beeped incessantly, scaring me, even though I knew it was communicating to me that my father was doing well, that his heart was beating steadily.