She sank, trance-like, into the plastic-covered chair and absorbed the wordless song, the alternating and conflicting notes that formed a harmonious wave, gentle as it swept over her weariness. There would surely be raised voices, blistering words soon, but she hoped that he wouldn’t realize her presence for at least a few more minutes, that he would continue on this wave, carrying her along.

Reading Coffee Cups

It all started when Nader, God rest his soul, bought his wife Siham a dishwasher. The other women in our circle were not pleased, but they kept quiet. I was unable to do that—it has always been one of my bad qualities.

“She only has one child,” I told Layla, “and I have four. Could she possibly have more dishes to clean than I do?”

Layla shrugged, making no commitment. “I only have one child too, Imm Nabeel.” I could have smacked myself, because of course she only had one—her daughter, Hanan, who strutted around the neighborhood like a boy. She wore tight, acid-washed jeans, carefully ripping out the knees, and made her hair stick up in the front. She sprayed it so much that it stood off her head like a peacock’s feathers. Abu Nabeel joked that airplanes swerved to avoid crashing into it. Aliyah always rolled her eyes when I spoke of Hanan, because those two were in the same class at the St. Nicholas School, along with Reema and Nadia. I’d always felt sorry that Layla had lost her second pregnancy and never had another. A child needs a playmate, and I didn’t care who heard me say it.

But that dishwasher of Siham’s bothered me. It bothered me so much inside. I liked Siham dearly—she was sweet and ladylike. Her father was Doctor Al-Medani back home—everyone knew him. He had treated me once as a child, when my brother pushed me down the concrete steps that led to the chicken coop and broke my arm. The Doctor used to travel among the villages that surrounded Jerusalem, and my family summoned him immediately. He came out in the middle of the night, poor man, and smiled at me with his nice eyes while he wrapped and bound my arm and my Aunt Suha and my mother gazed at him in rapture. He was bareheaded and wore trousers and a button-down shirt with a collar, unlike many of the men in the village—like my father—who still wore baggy sirwal pants and long, white hattas and i’gals on their heads.

I told Siham that story when I was first introduced to her, when she moved into the neighborhood, and she almost wept. We hugged right away, and talked for hours about those we had left back home: she missed her parents, and I missed many of my friends and cousins. We talked about how we could arrange visas for them to come to the States, and so we bonded that first day. We became sisters.