Chapter 8. Already Gone #2
Their names are carved in blood—torn by flesh—with the stains of history rotting the contract made from my very bones; yes, the bones, the stones, the skin, the blood, and they sign—soul death—as a sinister smile severs his face into two parts, his teeth bared with greed, and he escorts this new couple, these new tenants—same sickening thievery—over my rotting corpse. They sign their names in red.
drip, drip, drip
Halting footsteps—pausing to point, and laugh, and imagine a life superimposed over what once was—pound against the stone foundation; the disturbance travels through me, shivers down the spine, and causes ripples within the still water down below, far down, the place where Death lies, and they walk through me—do they know they walk through a body?
A body with wooden bones and stoned flesh and memories of sunlight and tiny socked feet. They must, they must.
But she cannot return if they are here.
Their footsteps are loud and violent and I feel exactly where they rove over my body.
Seawater rotted with mildew gathers from the corners of my walls, rolling together to travel along the ceiling, and falling like lazy bullets from above—my skin, my face—and lands on one of them, the man, rolling down the back of his neck.
Cold, cold. His hand reaches up to feel it and the man, the realtor, notices and pulls them away—no!
Salt forms and crusts, falling into the windows—my eyes, those that have seen everything—and the floor beneath them in granular white remembrance and they pick up their feet, wondering what it is they could walk over and yet still, still, walking anyway; the realtor pushes them through, their footsteps slamming without care, and rushes them through the door and out of my grasp—
No.
Please … please.
He will always bring new settlers who eye my stones hungrily as he offers me up as a sacrifice, and Death will always rise from her perch—is it so impossible for these cycles to cease?
Was it not enough punishment to tear my family, gasping, crying, screaming, from my embrace—is it so impossible to wake from this endless nightmare?
All I want is my family, and if they are here now, then she will think she cannot come, that she has no right, that my walls are closed to her forever, that the false deeds written in blood are real—
No. Not again.
There will only be one way for her to return; only one way for my pain to recede—Marina Nuhad has done it before, she is connected already—she has seen me, deep below the watery grave, hands outstretched toward me in recognition—
She has fallen into the ocean and she will do it again.
The water slowly rises against my walls and I open up to the salt; together, We will bring my family in the waves, the churning, frothing seawater and they will rise on the tides that will drown the others, the new settlers, and they will know how it feels; Death reaches for me, stroking, soothing, and whispers:
We will return her. We will keep her,
forever.
Sara’s car pulls into the driveway where Haifa is waiting, worn suitcase by her feet, and in a matter of moments they are on the road together.
The O’Hare airport is an hour-and-a-half drive, but it’s a Sunday morning, and there is hardly any traffic.
Haifa sits at the edge of her seat, a nail propped between her teeth, as she watches the road pass them by.
“So what happened?” Sara asks gently.
“Marina is in the hospital. There’s something wrong with her lungs, she said.” Haifa takes in a deep breath and it feels so satisfying that she wonders if she’s forgotten to breathe the past few minutes. “She fell into the sea. She didn’t drown, but—she fell.”
“Salamitha,” Sara says. “She will be okay.”
“We’ll see,” Haifa says, but the lilt of the end of her sentence ends on an upswing, as if she’s seeking reassurance.
“If she’s well enough to call and talk to you, she’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” Sara says. “If she’s at the hospital, she’ll be taken care of.”
“Yeah. Well.” Haifa wants to stop there, but it feels rude. “I just need to know she’s okay.”
A strange sensation, as if she’s being watched, prickles the back of Haifa’s neck and she twists to glance behind. The leather back seat is empty. She turns around, but the sensation persists. It is as if steady eyes are trained on the back of her neck for the rest of the journey.
Ninety minutes pass in a blur of highway, concrete, and billboards, and soon Sara pulls into the long line winding around the departure section of O’Hare.
Though the roads have been mostly clear, the airport line makes up for it.
They’re leagues away from the actual building—it’s a distant gray from their spot in line. Haifa unbuckles.
“I’m going to run into the airport and see if I can get a ticket on the next flight available while you get through this line. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” Sara nods.
“And—” Haifa bends over her backpack, drawing out the pages that were hidden behind the wedding photo frame. “These are what I need help with. Do you mind translating them for me while you wait? Please.”
“What is it?” Sara takes it and scans it over. “Oh.”
“I don’t know. They were stuck behind one of the pictures my mom had, but I don’t know what they are or where they come from.” Haifa opens the door and sticks one leg out. “Okay, I’ll be back!”
She half jogs to get to the first entrance in the airport; inside, it’s buzzing with people on summer vacations and group trips. There’s a wall of people wrapped around the security section, moving and breathing and waiting.
The airline desk is almost entirely empty as Haifa approaches. The woman at the front is primped to perfection—even her lip liner appears to be in exactly the right place—but she looks tired. A light smile brightens her cheeks but doesn’t touch her eyes. “How can I help you?”
“The next flight available to Tel Aviv, please.”
“Passport?”
Haifa digs through her purse for her passport. When she looks up, the attendant is gone.
Nuhad stands in her place.
Haifa freezes. Ice rakes over Haifa’s arms with cold fingers despite her skin being covered by a sweatshirt. The air has suddenly been sucked out of the room and her vision fades to black at its edges. She only sees Nuhad.
Her mother.
Agony is cut into Nuhad’s face. The memory of her eyes, the ones that Haifa recalls as being richly dark and deep, is being written over with the same desperation that has been carved inside of this ghost time and time again.
Nuhad reaches her hands toward Haifa. She chokes on her words and feels the ice-cold, bloodred hands of her mother slowly grip at her cheeks. Nuhad’s face is inches away. Below the surface of her skin is a boiling, churning mass of movement, like water. Haifa recoils, but Nuhad grips more tightly.
“Already gone.” In her open mouth Haifa can see flashes of images: a bleeding woman, a building turned to rubble, refugees wrapped in blankets.
Nuhad’s fingers are steel against her skin.
From her periphery Haifa can see the red on her cheeks; she can feel the slimy wetness of the blood as it travels down to the corner of her mouth.
The taste of iron lingers at her lips, lurking in a crimson threat at the edge of her senses.
Nuhad’s face darkens and she squeezes. “Already gone.” Haifa’s heartbeat rattles as her head is shaken by her mother’s hands. Nuhad screams. “Already gone. Already gone. Already gone.”
“Stop,” Haifa gasps, and the blood finally touches her tongue, coating her mouth in sharp copper. “Stop. Please.” She grabs at her mother’s fingers, prying each wet one off of her face, and when she is done, her scream dies at the sight of the attendant in front of her. She stares at Haifa.
“Uh—passport, ma’am?”
Haifa nods, her hands trembling as they slide the small square over the counter. She looks over her shoulder, but Nuhad is gone. The feeling of being watched has disappeared.
“The next flight is this evening. Does that work?”
Haifa nods again, too afraid of what will come out if she speaks. The attendant completes the transaction and Haifa clutches her ticket tightly in hand, her eyes shifting for the ghost that haunts her. Even now, Nuhad doesn’t want her to go. Haifa will never measure up to the memory.
She just has to make it until tonight, then she leaves. Humidity sticks to her skin as she heads back outside to find Sara; her car has finally neared the entrance.
“That moved fast,” she remarks, her voice falsely inflated as Sara exits to meet her. She opens the trunk and Haifa grabs her bag. “Thank you so much, Sara. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Haifa buries herself in her friend’s shoulder as she gives her a hug. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, dear.” Sara searches her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Haifa laughs lightly, her breath expelling pent-up anxiety as her eyes search the road for the one who haunts her. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Sara says slowly. She hands her the pages clutched in her fist. “I translated the papers for you.” She opens her mouth to say something else, but decides not to. “You probably shouldn’t read it until you’re there.”
“Okay. Thank you, Sara.” Haifa stuffs them into the side pocket of her bag.
“I hope Marina is all right. Let me know if you need a ride back, ah?”
Haifa nods, giving her friend one final goodbye before racing back into the bustling airport. Nuhad’s warnings pound anxiously over Haifa’s heart like a drum—already gone—but she tries to smother the feeling. Across the ocean lies her daughter in a hospital bed.