“It’s true, the tourist resort is closed. But that means there’ll be plenty of quiet beaches for us to enjoy. Now go wash your hands.” Huda struggled to keep her voice even. “There’s roast chicken and eggplant fritters for dinner.”

“We’re not waiting for Dad?”

“He went to the coffee shop. I expect he’ll be home late.”

Khalid peered into her face. His green eyes narrowed.

“Your mascara is all smudged. You look like a raccoon. Have you two been arguing again?”

“No, not at all.” Huda wiped her finger under her lids. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Is Dad coming to Lake Habbaniyah?”

“I wish he was, but he has other things to do here. Important things.” Huda busied herself with the oven while Khalid washed his hands in the sink.

“Is that cardamom chicken, Mom? That’s my favorite, you know.”

“I know very well, my darling.” Huda ladled a slice of eggplant onto his dinner plate. “I wanted to cook a special dinner for you.”

“Where’s your plate, Mom?”

“I’m not feeling hungry. But, please, sit down and get started before it gets cold.”

Huda’s lip quivered. She’d wanted so badly for them all to share a family meal together, to enjoy a few old jokes, and pretend that the moment would last forever. Instead, she hid her face from her son and bumbled about the kitchen, sick to her stomach.

She couldn’t stop thinking of the taxi driver. Was Hatim’s wife already washing his body and wrapping it in a shroud? Or was she in her kitchen, same as Huda, trying to keep her husband’s dinner warm, telling herself he must have stopped to play a game of backgammon on the way home? She pictured the woman at the dinner table, listening to the tick of the clock on her wall.

Khalid sliced into his chicken.

“You’re the best cook ever, Mom.”

Huda smothered a sob and fled out the back door. In the garden, cicadas buzzed. Their cry cycled up and down, up and down, like a pulsing heart. Huda glanced through the kitchen window as Khalid bit into a slice of eggplant. What would he do when he learned the trip to Lake Habbaniyah was a ruse? Would he welcome a chance at freedom? Or, like his father, would he rather die than leave Iraq?

The waxy leaves of the orange tree scraped against the fence. On the horizon, the flames of al-Dora speared the gray evening. Huda tried to take a deep breath but her chest was tight as a drum. She knew she should go inside and finish packing but she couldn’t leave the garden. She wiped her eyes and wondered, Would this be the last time she’d smell the apricot trees’ perfume?

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27