Chapter 4. The Shatat
The Shatat
Haifa lets the twisted cord uncurl from her fingertips as she leans against the kitchen counter. Sweat—whether from excitement or anxiety—is starting to collect in her underarms.
“Ah, ah. Shukran. Ya’ateek al a’afiyeh.”
She settles the phone back into its cradle and allows the ensuing silence to echo what she has done.
Marina is going to Haifa. She’s spending the first four nights in the city that’s loomed over Haifa her entire life.
The paper is in front of her, with detailed directions dictated from the bed-and-breakfast host and other instructions from her cousin Philippe.
Buses leave from Tel Aviv to Haifa every hour. She can buy a ticket once she’s there.
Haifa reads and rereads every line; maybe if she focuses on the information, she won’t feel the overwhelming nerves.
Marina is not just going to Palestine for the first time, but to Haifa.
She’s going to see the city her grandmother grew up in—the city of her childhood—not only to retrieve Nuhad’s things, but to now see Haifa’s namesake. The dream.
Keys jingle in the back door, sticking in the rusty lock, and Haifa looks up just as Marina walks in.
Her shoulders are bare, and the ends of her hair are matted slightly against her neck in sweat despite the night air.
She slicks the strands away from her skin and holds them up with one hand and fans herself with the other.
“God, it’s so humid.” Marina reaches for a bottle of water from the pack that sits on the floor.
“Guess what?” Haifa blurts out, unable to keep the news to herself. She doesn’t wait for Marina’s response. “You’re going to Haifa.” Her hands shake slightly with jitters as she tries to recall the excitement she felt earlier. “You’re going to Haifa!”
Marina stares at her, and for a brief moment, Haifa feels as if she’s ruined this announcement. Marina leaves tomorrow—she should have decided this sooner. She should have set the stage to tell her. She should have—
“Really?” Marina’s eyes are unreadable as dozens of emotions flit across them all at once. She lowers the unopened bottle slowly.
“The first four nights, habibti.” Haifa pushes the paper over the counter. “You’ll land in Tel Aviv and take the bus up to Haifa instead of Nazareth. Philippe gave me a good bed-and-breakfast. It’s all set up.”
“Really?” Marina’s eyebrows pinch together—she really wasn’t expecting this.
“Yes, really.” Haifa moves around the counter and wraps her in a tight hug.
The release of embracing her daughter, of feeling like she’s done something right, something better as a mother than Nuhad did, causes tears to form, unbidden, in the wells of her eyes.
She loosens her grasp and searches Marina’s face. “Oh, honey, aren’t you excited?”
“Yeah, really excited.” A smile softens Marina’s face. “Really, really excited.”
“Good.” Haifa sniffs, then laughs a little. “As long as you don’t end up loving the city more than me.”
“What?” Marina chuckles too, but it’s an unsure sound.
“Because I’m Haifa … and the city…” Haifa laughs, but it dies slowly on her lips midair as she meets Marina’s confused gaze. Not confused—concerned.
“Mama, what—”
“Never mind! Never mind.” Haifa forces another laugh out as she waves her hand around. “Go on. Why don’t you go pack an extra bathing suit or something? Make sure you have everything you need for Haifa.”
Marina cocks her head slightly. Disbelievingly. “Okay.”
“I’m right behind you! I’ll pack you some snacks for the flight tomorrow,” she says, forcing a lift in her voice. She’s trying to be better, but Haifa has never been good at anticipating loss—she’s always made tragic, impulsive decisions instead of waiting for the inevitable.
“All right. Okay.” Marina picks up the bottle again. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Sure. Of course, habibti.” Haifa watches as she retreats down the hallway and to her room, then slides down to the floor and pulls her knees in.
What was Haifa expecting? For Marina to act as Nuhad had? Stupid. Haifa was worth more than she had been led to believe. She leans her head back against the cabinet and looks up.
She’s tried so hard. She’s always been a better mother to Marina than Nuhad was to Haifa; at least she has emotions. At least she’s told Marina that she’s proud of her. And somehow, none of it feels good enough.
A small sound escapes the back of Haifa’s throat as she picks herself back up. She’ll pack a goody bag filled with snacks and treats for the flight. Marina leaves in—she checks the clock—nineteen hours. Nineteen hours to Haifa.
Haifa opens the cupboards, searching for savory and sweet snacks that will last the flight.
Crinkly plastic rustles from bags landing on top of one another as she reaches up, tossing things onto the island.
Her stomach sucks itself back as she climbs onto the kitchen counter on her knees in search of the higher cupboards; she is face-to-face with dusty corners filled with cereals and granola bars.
Once she has thrown everything onto the island, she leaps back down, her knees stinging with the impact. She looks up. The kitchen light makes a reflection in the dark night through the window, and over her shoulder she sees her.
Nuhad.
She is wispy and fragile, shimmering as if she appears through water rather than a window. The pits of her eyes are deep, caustic pools of black, and a crimson smear covers her mouth. She traces it as she speaks, her gaze unblinking on Haifa.
“Don’t go,” she says, and the voice sounds like it’s directly behind Haifa. “Already gone.”
A red palm rises behind Haifa, and Nuhad’s eyes beg her—they effuse desperation—as she reaches for Haifa’s shoulder. Ice seeps through her veins. Haifa shudders as the hand makes contact, grabbing her flesh. She whirls around—
But Nuhad is gone. She is already gone.
The full orchestra behind Majida El Roumi’s voice is stifled by the car’s tiny speakers. Haifa only plays Arabic music when she wants to feel emotional. Marina exits the car, watching people and all of their comings and goings, rushed hugs and quiet tears in the car afterward.
“You have everything?” Haifa pauses, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Socks? Keys? Cash? Um … what am I missing? And you know, if you need your dad, he’s a short plane ride away.
Call him if you need, but the cell phone that I got you should be able to call me—if it doesn’t, get a new SIM card there.
You have all of the addresses near you? For groceries or SIM cards, or—God forbid—hospitals or pharmacies?
The man at the bed-and-breakfast is Philippe’s second cousin’s—second cousin is his mother’s cousin, right?
I can’t remember, but either way, he’s his cousin’s brother-in-law, so you’ll be okay. ”
“Yes, Mama.”
Haifa looks overhead for a moment—maybe in contemplation, maybe in guidance—before thrusting a small piece of paper into Marina’s hands.
She squints at a handful of directions written in her mother’s loopy handwriting.
It’s a street number and name with relational directions: two doors down from Im Suheil’s house, around the corner from the bank, across the street from the small church. The city is Haifa.
“Is this—?”
“Yes. Yes. And—and I don’t know if it’s still there.
But if you want to find it, this is what I know.
I pieced it together from what Tata always said.
When she did talk about it.” Haifa’s words rush out, piling atop one another in her haste.
Marina can practically touch her poor mother’s discomfort—everything is too much.
Haifa’s chin trembles with nerves and her giggles are nowhere to be found.
“They could have bulldozed the street. I don’t know—really, I don’t know if it’s still there.
She told me it’s at a certain intersection by the sea, though. I wrote that down too.”
It’s the most her mother has ever given her, and though Marina should be angered by that, she isn’t.
“Thank you, Mama,” Marina whispers into her mother’s shoulder as they embrace. “I’ll call you when I land.”
“Yallah. Bye, habibti. Go now before I start crying,” Haifa says, but the tears are already welling in her clear brown eyes.
“Bye, Mom.” Marina kisses her cheek and gives her a quick smile before grabbing her suitcase and wheeling inside.
The terminal is filled with flushed passengers attempting to navigate the large Chicago airport: families with upset children, businesspeople on trips, young adults with large backpacks, and Marina. Her feet feel light as she walks away from Chicago and toward her grandmother’s city.
As she reaches her gate, she slows. There is additional security here—no other gates in sight are caged by clear plastic walls and officers. Anxiety bubbles in her stomach as she walks over, setting her backpack on the floor. She wishes her mother were with her now.
“Hello, shalom.” The guard is clean-shaven and tall, but his lips are so dried out that even the shiny, clear layer of lip balm cannot hide the white flecks of skin on them.
Marina hands over her passport wordlessly.
She knows that he already knows, can see it in her dark brows and the cut of her cheeks, in the small, knitted key chain with the colors of the Palestinian flag hanging from her backpack.
“Marina?”
“Yes.” Obviously.
“What is the purpose of your visit?”
“To tour Haifa.”
“And where is your family from?”
“I was born here.”
“Yes, but where are your mother and father from?”
“They were also born here.”
He looks at her, head tilted in exasperation. A bubble of hilarity rises in Marina’s throat at his expression, but only one corner of her mouth turns up slightly.
“Where were your grandparents from?”
Marina feels like telling him he already knows. The line is now building behind her.
“Which grandparents?”
“Father’s side.”
“Italy.”
“Okay, then where were your grandparents on your mother’s side from?”
“Haifa and Nablus.”
“So, you are Arab?”
“Yes, half.”