Salt of the Haunted House

Chapter 1. Excised Limbs

Excised Limbs

Occupation begets suffocation and is in itself a theft of the air; it becomes impossible to breathe in this sudden grip that chokes life away.

It is emptiness. This theft stifles in every corner it lurks: the mundanities, the paperwork, the checkpoints.

Not only is it an occupation of the land, it becomes an occupation of the lungs too.

For a house that has held families within its walls for generations, and especially for the small stone house overlooking the Mediterranean Sea whose family was stolen, it is entirely the same feeling of emptiness.

Why is the house in Haifa haunted?

CHICAGO SUBURBS, 2002

Black letters blur at their edges against the pixelated white glow of the computer screen.

Marina’s eyes unfocus and refocus. She watches the letters come into form and slip away, her head lolling back against the desk chair with her feet propped up against the wall.

The white paint has been smudged gray in the shape of two ovals.

Marina has been staring at the same screen for almost five minutes.

“Sweetie?” Marina’s mother’s voice comes from behind the door. She knocks, a half tap, before swinging it open anyway.

Marina sighs, her eyes snapping back to reality as she sits upright. The polyester carpet is rough against her toes as she twirls her chair to face her mother.

“That damn lawn.” Haifa flops onto her backside, arms splayed out, on Marina’s bedspread. Her forehead is wet with the sheen of sweat. She lies there for one moment before sitting back up. “Why is it so dark in here?”

She moves over to the window at the far corner, where Marina’s heavy black curtain covers the late afternoon.

“No, no, leave it—” Marina flinches from the sudden light. The sun is an orange ball whose rays shine in half form as it dips below the roof of the house across the street.

“Let there be light.” Haifa giggles at her own joke and turns.

Her canines overlap the front two teeth slightly; it adds to the unfocused image Marina associates with her mother.

It’s not just her nervous smile—it’s the way her hair is always frizzy from the Chicago humidity, coils defying one another as they separate out.

It’s the way tiny black mascara clumps always weigh heavily in dark smudges below her eyes.

Haifa is always missing a button, or her shirt is on backward, or she’s squinting because she can’t find her glasses. She’s blurry. Unfocused.

“Any luck?”

Marina squints from the sun and holds a hand up to her eyes as she follows her mother until she sits on the bed again. “About as much luck as you have with the garden.”

“Ah. So, none at all then.” Haifa grins as she spreads her hands behind her, leaning back on the worn bedspread.

It’s an old comforter, brown and pink—an artifact of Marina’s early teenage years.

“Hmm … I could check at the school. Maybe someone there would have some connections? Where are you looking?”

“Trust me, ya Mama.” She flips her eyes up exaggeratedly. “I’m looking everywhere.”

“I believe you, sweetie, I do—I just can’t believe that a young, successful woman in computer science wouldn’t be able to find a job right out of college.

” Haifa shakes her head. “I mean … how is that possible? Everyone I know who studied computer science now works at some nice, big tech company. We must be doing something wrong.”

The disappointment in her mother’s voice stings—its light emphasis on we—but Marina brushes it off as she stands, clasping her hands and stretching, hearing the small pops in her back. She closes her eyes and zeroes in on the feeling of release.

“God, it’s so hot in here.” Haifa fans herself and giggles again in Marina’s silence.

“I need water.” The door creaks as Marina opens it, a slight hint for her mother to follow.

“Well.” Haifa stands and pats down the bedspread, smoothing out the wrinkles that aren’t there. “If you don’t find anything … maybe you could look into graduate school.”

Marina bites the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes. Haifa gets ahead of herself before Marina has a chance to keep up. “I haven’t resorted to that yet. I’ll find something.”

“Would you want to do more computer science?” Haifa puts her hands up in surrender.

“Or it could be for something fun—it doesn’t have to be computer science!

” Haifa rambles as they walk down the narrow hallway to the kitchen.

“There are lots of respectable fields you could go into. You could teach computer science—that’s a noble profession. ”

The prompt of graduate school echoes in Marina’s head as if it could hold the answers.

All of her friends have everything already figured out: Jessie is applying to medical schools, Rosa is already working at a housing organization and helping people, Leila is taking a couple of gap years with the Peace Corps.

Everyone has always had a plan—except for Marina.

She’s only ever followed the path Haifa laid out for her.

But maybe graduate school could finally answer the questions of who Marina really is and what she wants to do with her life.

“… Oh! What about an Arabic course? You could learn, and then share with me. How fun would that be? We could practice together!” Haifa claps her hands, satisfied.

“Fun,” Marina repeats. The yellow of the kitchen greets her; it’s a spot of brightness against the house’s dark wood.

The curtains are dulled sunshine and matched by the slightly sticky wallpaper with yellow daisies flowered across.

Even the dishes, lying out to dry, are plastic yellow against the white countertop.

“I’m serious.” Haifa leans against the kitchen counter and props her chin in her hands. “Why not? You’re going to Nazareth soon—maybe you could pick up a short course while you’re there.”

At this, Marina’s jaw locks with the effort of attempting to ask Haifa for something in a way that won’t hurt her feelings. The summer humidity is palpable in the air, even with the air-conditioning unit whining, and it mixes with the unspoken feelings.

“I’ll go look up programs right now. I’m sure if you asked, they would let you in, even though it’s last minute. Arabs on Arab timing!” Haifa giggles again, but it’s a forced sound and it hits against Marina’s wall of silence.

“I’ve been thinking … Mama,” Marina starts.

She picks up a yellow cup and rolls it between her hands.

“Could I actually stay in Haifa? Instead of Nazareth?” She winces slightly as the words become materialized.

“I know they’re close to each other. So it doesn’t even really matter, right?

” she adds quickly, already cutting off her mother’s protestation.

Haifa is silent as Marina fills up her cup and holds her breath.

When she was younger, she’d asked incessantly about their culture and heritage.

Their history. What was Palestine to a young, mixed girl living in America?

What was it to be Palestinian? Who was she?

was the question underlining all of her attempts to understand.

Haifa would do her best to respond, but when it came to discussing Haifa the city, Haifa her namesake, her face would become a blank, smooth surface against which questions slid off and died.

She eventually learned to stop asking Haifa about Haifa.

It was a locked box from the past. But it led to a feeling of loss. Of being lost.

“Why Haifa specifically?” she finally asks. Her voice is even, but Marina can hear the nerves beneath.

Marina sips slowly.

“I want to see Tata’s city.”

When Haifa told her that she would be going to Palestine to retrieve her grandmother Nuhad’s things from their family in Nazareth—a task, Haifa said, that she could not bring herself to do after her mother’s death—Marina was terrified and overjoyed all at once.

Though it was a simple task, it felt like Marina was finally being rewarded after a lifetime of asking after their heritage.

But she didn’t want to stay in Nazareth with family—she wanted to go to Nuhad’s city of birth and childhood.

“Yes, habibti, but we have family in Nazareth. Not Haifa,” her mother says slowly. Painstakingly.

“Yes, but—”

“Khalo Philippe lives in Nazareth. End of story. I’m not sending you to a city neither of us have ever been to,” Haifa says as her face smooths and hardens.

The only sound is that of Marina setting the yellow cup down against the countertop. Her eyes are downcast as she attempts to wrangle all of the emotions stirring within.

“If I’m already there, I can find Tata’s old house. I can see where she grew up.”

“And why would you want to relive pain like that? It’s in the past. Tata is dead.” Haifa’s voice immediately falters, and Marina feels guilt sink in her stomach like a rock.

“I’ll already be there. I—” Marina says quietly, but she swallows the rest of her words.

“What do you want from me, habibti?” Haifa’s hands are spread wide, a false promise of welcome. “I can’t send my only daughter to a city I don’t know.”

“A city you don’t know? Did we not listen to the same stories from Tata?” Marina’s voice is steady. Haifa closes her eyes. “Why would it be so wrong for me to explore our lineage? Why is it every time I bring up Haifa, you shut down? Why am I walled off from the city I should have been raised in?”

Haifa opens her eyes—filled with unspoken pain—and inhales, but the words don’t come out. She shakes her head helplessly, but Marina can’t stand the futility of it and she storms away. Her feet make little noise against the carpet but her bedroom door slams against the wood. It is hot. Humid.

Marina throws herself into her chair and switches to the music tab.

She turns the volume all the way up, immersing herself in the bass and running from the guilt she feels.

She can picture her mother still in the kitchen with her mouth still attempting to fill itself with reasons that will never come out.