13. Omar
Chapter thirteen
Omar
Something buzzed. Or was it a bell? Whatever I’d been dreaming vanished, and my waking mind wrestled with the idea of opening my eyes.
The ringing grew louder.
“For the love of king and country, just stop!” I growled at my phone. The blasted thing refused to listen and kept chirping.
Chirping.
Shit.
That was Mother’s tone. Mother was calling.
“What time is it?” I grumbled, reaching over and grabbing my phone.
“Mother?”
“Hello, dear. You made me wait long enough.”
Great, she’s in a mood.
“It’s five fifteen in the morning here.”
“Well, it is a quarter past ten here in London, a perfectly reasonable time to speak with your mother.”
There was no winning with her. There never was. I sat upright and rubbed my bleary eyes.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Of course. Does something need to be wrong for me to want to speak with my son?”
This isn’t just a mood. It’s a disturbance in the Force.
“Besides, I have news, and you need to make plans.”
Here it comes.
“What plans?”
“Ambassador Fouad has announced his retirement. Your father is to be the next ambassador to the United Kingdom.”
I blinked myself awake. She hadn’t been wrong. This was huge. Father had worked his way up from an entry-level diplomat with barely any experience to become one of Egypt’s most respected foreign service leaders. To be named ambassador to any nation was a great honor, but to be the official voice of Egypt in London was the accomplishment of a lifetime.
“Do you not have anything to say?” Mother snapped.
“Sorry, it is wonderful, Mother. Truly. Father must be over the moon.”
She chortled, her version of a restrained laugh. “He would never show it in public, but I have never seen the man so excited.”
Isis, my cantankerous Persian, chose that moment to unsettle herself from the empty pillow where she slept and pad over to sit against my leg. That was as close to affection as the little princess ever showed. I reached down and stroked her, earning a motorcycle engine of a purr. Her perpetual scowl almost twitched as her golden eyes fluttered open and shut.
“Fouad’s retirement ceremony will take place in two months. Your father and I fly to Cairo for his official appointment a month after that. We will return to be received by King Charles the following week.”
“That fast?”
“Yes, this is all moving very quickly. You know how government is.”
I resisted the urge to laugh. Government, especially the Egyptian one, moved about as quickly as the time to build a pyramid . . . and that was on small decisions. For this ambassadorship to move so quickly, the ground must’ve shaken in Cairo.
Mother’s next words froze my heart. “I would love for you to be with us when he is given his position in Cairo, but you must join us for the reception with the King.”
“Mother, I just started—”
“I will hear none of this,” she said, her voice the decree of a pharaoh. “Make your plans. You will stand by my side as your father is honored.”
“Yes, mother,” I surrendered.
Her voice softened for the first time since I’d answered the bloody call. “It will be good to see you, hayati .”
There was no way out of traveling to London if she was using that Arabic endearment. I could vaguely recall Mother using that term when I was little, though I couldn’t remember a single time she’d used it since my early teen years. Roughly translated, it meant, “My life.”
“Make your plans,” she said hurriedly, her tone returning to its usual businesslike clip. “I have much to prepare. Be well, my son.”
I clicked “End,” dropped my phone beside me, and let my head fall back onto the headboard. Isis craned her head to look up at me.
“Well, bugger me with a cricket bat.”
Isis yawled.
Wide awake at an ungodly hour, I threw back the covers and padded into the bathroom. I’d barely settled onto the throne before my phone chimed again.
“For the love of—”
Two more chimes sounded, tiny machine guns going ding-ding , ding-ding . Someone really wanted to text.
At six o’clock in the morning.
I finished my business and grabbed my phone.
Teto : Zoom me.
Teto : Now.
Teto : I know you are sleeping. I do not care. Wake up and Zoom me.
My grandmother was an eighty-seven-year-old force of nature. Like the storms of sand, she would not be denied.
And I loved her more than life itself.
Me : I need coffee. Mother just called and woke me up. Two minutes.
Teto : You put me off for coffee? I am old and could die any moment, and you want me to wait on water to boil? I should disown you.
Me : You never “owned” me to begin with. How could you disown me? And you will never die. You are either a cockroach or a scarab. I haven’t decided which.
Teto : Do not get smart with me, young man. Get your coffee and Zoom me or this scarab will bite!
I couldn’t stop smiling.
Teto’s voice was so clear in my mind, all wrinkled and weathered, a perfect representation of the miniature human I was about to see on my PC window. She tried to put on a sharp, commanding tone, like Mother, but I knew there was laughter in her voice as her crooked thumbs typed, erased, re-typed, re-erased, then typed again before hitting send. She was a terrible texter, which was why we more often used Zoom. Besides, I loved seeing her face, and I knew she felt the same.
My Keurig took its time heating up and dribbling dark stuff into my mug. By the time I got back to my laptop, powered it on, and loaded Zoom, ten minutes had passed.
“What took you so long, my sharbat ?”
A laugh flew out faster than my reply. Sharbat meant “sweet drink,” like a Coke or sugar water. Teto hadn’t called me that in years, but she was an endless source of new nicknames and endearments. I never quite knew what kind of animal or other object I might become in our next conversation. She once called it “grandson reincarnation,” though the idea of reincarnation was anathema to a good Muslim. Publicly, she would renounce all thoughts of such things. Privately, Teto was a rebel, and I loved her all the more for it.
Staring at the screen, I saw lines marring her ancient face that I hadn’t noticed the last time we’d spoken. The inky black of her hair had resisted gray into her seventies but had lost the battle. Silvery white now crowned her beautifully grizzled face. Despite fresh signs of advanced age, Teto’s smile was as bright as ever, and her eyes twinkled as she spoke. I could almost feel the warmth of her eternal love flowing through my laptop.
“Sorry, Teto. My coffee maker takes forever.”
“Pish!” She waved a bony hand. “You should use a kettle like me. It takes longer but brews better beans, not like that fake caca you drink.”
I snorted. “Caca?”
“Yes, caca. Poop. Crap. Shit—”
“Teto!”
Her gnarled forefinger shot out. “Don’t scold me. I am old enough to say whatever I like.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course, you are.” My cheeks already hurt from smiling.
“Now, tell me about this new job of yours. Have you dropped a baby yet?”
“No, they frown upon dropping infants.” I laughed again. Damn, she was killing me this morning. “I think I am going to like the NICU once I figure out how to do it all. There is so much to learn, and every baby is unique. They have me working Level One, which is the newborns who did not come early and have no serious illness. Over time, I should work up to handle more complex patients.”
“There is nothing more precious in this world than a child, habibi . Cherish them. They are not your own, but you should treat them as though they are. That is better advice than anything those doctors will offer.”
I nodded, knowing she was right, if a bit off the medical mark.
We talked more about the hospital and some of my coworkers. When I told her about Steel Bun and how she bossed me around, Teto turned protective. “You fly me to Atlanta, and I will teach that woman how she should treat my na’um min al-kilab .”
Coffle splattered my screen, and I had to set my mug down before tossing it all over the couch.
“If you are going to call me a poodle, please do it in English. The image is less pleasant in Arabic.”
“Pish!” She swatted the air again. “I am old enough to call you whatever I like, kutlat aldjaj !”
“Grandma, Teto, I must draw the line at ‘chicken nugget.’ That is out of bounds, even for one as wise and experienced as you.”
She fiddled with her wispy hair and grinned wickedly. “When you praise me, you receive whatever you ask. I will refrain from nuggetizing you.”
Nuggetizing?
Not only had she called me a chicken nugget; she then made those tasty morsels a verb. Who did that?
“Thank you, greatest of the grandmothers. Oracle of Egypt. Pharaoh of—”
“All right. A little sugar sweetens the tea. Best to not overdo it.” Her eyes were sparkling more than ever, and her grin—I could’ve lost myself in that smile.
Then she leaned toward her camera, her whole face filling my screen, and whispered, “Enough of all that. Tell me about your man. I can see it in your eyes. You met one.”
How in all the hells?
I blinked a few times, then took a sip of coffee, buying time to think of how to respond.
“Do not hide from me, habibi . I see you. I have always seen you. You are my little albatatis . Do not forget it.”
Great. I’d gone from being a chicken nugget to a potato. This was going in the wrong direction, even for her.
“I haven’t fallen in love or anything.”
She squealed, and, for the briefest moment, a teenage girl sat before me, clapping her hands and dancing where she sat. My heart felt like it might burst.
“I knew it! I could see it in your eyes. You smile with your eyes, habibi . You could never hide that, not from me, at least.”
I blew out a sigh and ran a hand over my head. There was no hiding from the woman.
“Now, out with it. Tell me all about him, and spare no details. I will know if you do,” she ordered.
Of course, she would.
“His name is Matty—well, Matthew. He goes by Matty.”
“You use a nickname already. This is good.”
I chose not to correct her. It wasn’t like I had a secret pet name for the guy. Everyone called him Matty, but Teto would never understand—or accept—that American way of thinking. In her mind, a shortened name meant affection, and that was that.
“He is a nurse in the emergency room.”
“This is wonderful.” She clapped again. “Two nurses in the family! Habibi , your gidd would have been so proud.”
My grandfather died years ago. Teto still referred to him as though he slept in the next room. That was both heartwarming and, well, heartbreaking.
“We have only been on two dates, Teto.”
“Two dates is how it begins,” she insisted.
My phone alarm blared, reminding me that I had only an hour before my shift. Teto scowled on screen.
“You have to go,” she said.
I nodded. “I have to get ready for work. There are babies to drop.”
She chortled. “No dropping. Have I taught you nothing, yuraea ?”
A firefly? Really? I had to escape before I was reincarnated as a grub worm or something worse.
“Love you, Teto.”
“ Wahishni awi, habibi .”