Chapter 4. The Shatat #5
Though her body’s internal clock is pulling her to the soft, warm sheets, Marina knows she has to make it through the day.
The sun shines through the loose white curtains, illuminating her white socks standing over the indigo rug.
She takes a quick shower and rakes her fingers through her hair as she pulls on a fresh T-shirt and some capris.
A small keffiyeh headband lies on the dresser, and as an afterthought, she slides it over her head.
The clock now says 10:37 AM—which is 2:37 AM in Chicago.
She’ll call Haifa tonight. The only sound she makes as she walks to the kitchen is the slight stick of the pads of her feet against the tile floor.
“There’s still some breakfast,” Hassan says, pointing at the tray of pastries with his chin. He sets his newspaper down but his eyes remain on it. She sits across from him and grabs a croissant.
“Thank you.”
“How was the flight?” His gray mustache twitches with his mouth and he smooths his scalp, his hand remembering a time he still had hair.
“Taba’an long. I could hardly sleep.”
“You just need a good night’s rest.” He nods at her, and his eyes travel to the window. “Where did you come from?”
“Chicago.”
“Ah, Chicago.” He pauses, letting the silence fill between them. “They say a big storm will hit us in a few days—a cyclone, off the coast of the Mediterranean.”
“I guess I came at a good time.” She follows his eyes, where there is a small pocket of blue sky between the tight joints of the old buildings packed together. Somewhere beyond, the sea breathes.
Hassan grunts and returns to his newspaper. Marina looks back down at the table, grateful that his English is better than her Arabic.
“Do you ever read your tea leaves?” The sight of the black bits swirling in a small pool of coffee at the bottom of Hassan’s cup reminds Marina of when her grandmother would sometimes read tea leaves for her. He chuckles.
“No, but I have many family members who would be happy to do it. They’ll bring out a huge book and read your horoscope for the year, too. I don’t believe in that stuff.” He waves his hand and Marina laughs. “What do you have planned for your trip?”
“I’m not sure. I want to see if I can find my tata’s old house first.”
Hassan’s mustache lifts a little at one side, but there is a longing sadness in his expression. “Of course.” His voice is soft. “This is something we all do. Our unfortunate inheritance. Just be careful walking around—keep your head down, especially around Israeli soldiers.”
“I know.” There’s a twisted irony in how Marina must avoid the soldiers—the sentries of safety and civility—in order to maintain her own protection. Safety is only safe for settlers.
“Do you have your grandmother’s old address?”
Marina digs for the piece of paper that she’s kept tucked in her waistband since departing and unfurls it on the table between them. “My mom wasn’t sure if it still existed.”
Hassan peers at it, deciphering the handwriting, but his fingers quickly still. His shoulders creep up beside his ears. “This was your grandmother’s house?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?” He cuts off her statement, his apparent fear bypassing Marina in service of his own questions.
“Nuhad.” Marina searches her memory for her last name. “Nuhad Sayadi.”
“You’re from dar Sayadi?” Hassan’s eyebrows are knotted together, his hand clenched around the piece of paper now. The relaxed seat that Marina found him in is gone, replaced by an anxious lean over the table. Even the air has absorbed his tension.
“Yes,” Marina says, but it lilts at the end like a question. She’s not unsure of her heritage—her uncertainty lies in the sudden reality of it all. The unknown will become known, and her family’s past will finally be bared to the light.
“You cannot go to that house.” Hassan grips her wrist tightly and demands her gaze meet his eyes. “You cannot go to that house.”
“What? Why?” Marina pulls her wrist, but he tightens his grasp for a brief moment before realizing and releasing his tenant. “Why can’t I go?”
Hassan sighs, releasing the air that has been building around them in a pressure bubble. He shakes his head, as if clearing the noise from his mind. He sits back again. “It’s your grandmother’s home. But … it’s not the same. You have to be very careful. Don’t go inside. Ever.”
“Of course it’s not the same. It’s been stolen.
Things are bound to be different.” Marina searches his face, but the fear does not break.
Hassan’s anxiety did not stem from its theft—there is something else wrong with the house.
Marina’s first thought is that it’s scheduled to be bulldozed.
Or part of it is already a pile of rubble.
“Not just stolen.” Hassan rubs his forehead with his hand. His face is suddenly haggard. “People—people disappear in there. It’s not safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was a family once.” He presses his lips together.
“Please.” Now it is Marina who leans across the table, her anxiety imbuing the air with fragile tension. Her voice pleads and her heart rate quickens.
Hassan stares at the table for a moment before looking up to meet her gaze.
“There was a family once. Maybe fifteen years ago—from America. They had this little girl.” A puff of a laugh escapes his lips; it’s not filled with joy, but rather disbelieving assertion.
“The girl said that … there was a young child. In the house. And the girl would stare at her through the hallway mirror outside of her bedroom door. Every single night.”
Though the logical part of Marina’s brain retaliates immediately—haunted houses aren’t real—her flesh prickles.
As she repeats this affirmation to herself, the same fear that lit Hassan’s eyes only moments ago begins to spread—slowly—through Marina.
She doesn’t believe in hauntings—that’s meant for people like Haifa, who try their best to show a brave face but still fall victim to superstitions and the supernatural.
No, Marina believes in reality. Hassan continues.
“Her parents took her to see someone, I heard. They were worried about her health. But then”—his voice is suddenly hushed—“one night, the child climbed out of the mirror and stood over the girl’s bed.
She was dripping wet. Just before her parents were going to commit her to an institution, their daughter drowned.
In the bathtub. In only a few inches of water. ”
Marina’s words have been stolen from her throat, though they fly through her mind, hitting blank walls of ignorance. Did Nuhad know? How did it—?
“They say she drowned. But there were marks on her neck. Like fingers. As if she’d been choked to death.” Hassan drops his gaze. “It’s what people said, anyway.”
“And you think the house did it?” Marina’s voice comes out in an unintended whisper. Her grandmother’s house.
“Ever since I was a child, that house has been…” He trails off, searching for the word. “Wrong.”
“How do you know this story?”
“People talk.” He hesitates. “And it’s not the only story.”
“Do people still live in it? Is it still open?” Marina’s voice, to her surprise, is tinged with a hint of hope despite her trembling hands.
Hassan looks up sharply. He must hear the same tone of longing.
“Do not go into that house.”
“But if it’s open—”
He holds up a hand.
“Listen—I cannot force you. But you should understand more. Go see my neighbor Im Omar first. Her name is Rania, but in Arabic we call her Im Omar, mother of Omar. She knew dar Sayadi well. She will know more about the house than I do.” Hassan uncrumples the piece of paper and flips it over, writing Rania’s address on the back.
“It’s not far from here. Maybe ten minutes,” he says, and tells her the directions.
“Mashi.” Marina stuffs the piece of paper back into her waistband. She rubs her hands against each other to brush away the croissant crumbs and pushes her chair back from the table. Her legs shake imperceptibly as she stands.
“Marina—” Hassan starts. “Whatever Im Omar tells you … listen to her. She knows. She knows the house. She will tell you why you cannot go.”
Marina nods, unsure what to make of Hassan’s sudden change. As she exits the flat, Hassan’s leaden stare weighs heavy on her back.
The heat from outside hits her in the face like an open oven.
It’s not a long walk, and Hassan has given her easy directions to follow, but she still sweats as she sticks to the shade.
Where are the trees her grandmother would speak of?
Where is the sea breeze? There are only settlers on concrete and ugly green grass.
A sudden breeze bites through the heat. Marina looks up, eyes half squinting in the wind, but it dissipates.
Her eyes instead fall on an elderly man leaning on his cane across the street.
He stares directly at Marina, his dark gaze intense.
It is as if he’s trying to communicate something.
His face is wan, pale from exhaustion, and his other hand clutches his side, where a small pomegranate spot darkens the white of his shirt.
Marina’s breath hitches in her throat. A car stops in front of the man, obscuring Marina’s view, and when it passes, he is gone.
Her reverie is broken as a spot of wetness drops on her shoulder.
Marina looks up, searching for the woman hanging wet laundry or pouring dirty water down onto the street, but instead she hears raucous laughter from just behind her.
There is a group of young Orthodox Jewish boys who are standing together, pushing one another and laughing.
One of them points at her and yells something in Hebrew, and the rest laugh harder.