Chapter 11. We #2
Despite the water, Marina’s forehead breaks out in sweat and the heat swells, spreading throughout her body. The warmth of the sun no longer feels welcoming—it’s a menacing presence that’s dehydrating her body and gives her no cover under which to swim the length back to shore.
Two stones feel as though they attach themselves to her ankles and begin to weigh her down; as she looks to the seafloor—instinctively, without meaning to—where the house still sits, she sees there are two empty spaces inside of its stone wall.
The house wants her; there is a pleading beneath this desire—
Breathe.
She hears the voice as if it’s coming from beside her, but she is a lone speck in the middle of the sea.
Breathe.
Marina follows the directive and inhales, the air pushing her chin above the water.
Breathe.
As she exhales, she realizes she knows this calm voice—it sounds the same as it did in her dream. Her child uncle, Tariq.
Gathering strength from a reserve she didn’t realize was there, Marina pushes herself to swim back toward shore.
She times her strokes with the waves and uses their strength to propel herself gently with each breath, and slowly, the stone weights feel as if they detach.
Her eyes burn from the salt, but she focuses on the shore, and slowly, it grows larger.
When her feet finally hit the sand, she collapses. Even with the buoyancy of the water, her limbs tremble with exhaustion and relaxation. Marina crawls on her hands as the water becomes lower and drags herself onto solid, wet earth, panting.
She looks around. The beach is still empty—even the lifeguard chair still sits unoccupied. No one even noticed that she was swept away by a stray riptide. There are no claps, no awards for her bravery or ingenuity. She is the only witness to her near death.
Marina lies for a moment more, feeling the cold wetness of the ground.
Her skin is pink, and she knows she’ll have a slight burn tomorrow.
She gently pushes herself up, her legs still shaking, and stumbles toward the road, dazed, wondering where she is.
This is a different shore than the one she left from.
Her feet trudge against the impossible resistance of the sand, her thighs aching, until she reaches the pavement—
A young boy stands in the middle of the parking lot in pajamas. His body flickers in and out of reality, as if he’s made of old film. He looks directly at Marina. His eyes are wide, sad, innocent; they plead with her. A gust of wind blows and slightly ruffles movement from something beside him.
Tariq stands over this mass grave. Atop his own body, there is a pile of salt.
Bit by bit, Marina limps her way to Tariq. Her fingers reach for him, but he disappears as she does so, just as all of the other ghosts of Haifa have done. Here, but already gone. The pile of salt remains.
Rocks tumble down her lungs in greater force and Marina grasps at her throat, pinching the skin away, attempting to widen her air tubes. She gasps—in survival and grief.
Air finally threads through her throat in a thin, spidery rope.
She turns to the street. A lifeline pulling on her waist, Rania’s home tugs Marina gently to a safe space.
As she pulls herself slowly uphill, water drip drip dripping down her nightgown, a lone taxi slows beside her.
Before it can even make a full stop, a figure jumps out and rams into Marina, hoisting her up by the arm and shifting her weight onto her shoulder.
This figure is not a specter but flesh and bone.
It’s Haifa. She’s finally here.
“Marina! Marina, Marina—oh, my god,” she says, and her mother’s voice is like a soothing, honeyed remedy to Marina’s ears.
She’s a piece of home. Marina squeezes, holding on to her mother’s embrace as tightly as she can despite the weakness of her limbs.
Haifa’s skin feels cool against the wet fabric.
“Mama.” She gasps for air. Tears form in her eyes. “Mama.”
In this moment, despite everything, Marina feels like a whole human being. The sections and pieces of her life are gathering together in one city—there is no one defining instance that she can force. This is it. The feeling.
“Yee!” cries another voice that has become just as honeyed and soothing in its own way. Rania shuffles to her other side and hoists her up. Marina’s vision swims with sand and black spots. “What happened?”
Her lungs—her lungs—
In the clearest spot of her vision, a young boy appears. Tariq. His pajamas are still on, and his mouth is stretched into a yawning scar. A pile of rotted leaves surrounds his feet, whisking and turning in the wind.
“Help me! Help me!” Tears run down his face and Marina’s own return, but they are dry heaves. He pulls on the collar of his shirt in desperation and the blood blooms over his chest slowly. “Help me!”
The screams echo around her, blending with the worried, anxious noises of Haifa and Rania. Even the taxi driver now, too, has climbed out of the car and is helping hoist her back up. Tariq is crying, and it is all too much—
“Tariq,” she cries, needing it to end. “Tariq. Tata had a brother. She had a brother.” Her voice is wild and unrestrained, and as she yells, the black spots of her vision grow stronger. The breath is gone. As she collapses into them, the last thing that she sees is Tariq.
No no no no no—n—no, no nonono—
SHE. WAS. HERE.
But torn from my grasp. Torn—cut—like my family.
These new parasites drag heavy boxes against the tile and into the rooms, weighting their own memories over my body, but nothing will stick to my stone for there are no roots for imposters to latch on to, only slippery, rotten seawater surfaces.
Please … please.
When will it be enough?
She gives me breath, life; she dulls the pain of remembrance; I need her in my walls, within me, I need her to stay and never leave, root into the deep parts, heal the salted earth of my foundation, oh, to have my flesh within me again, to have my lungs full of her breath—
but they are still here.
And while they force nails into stone, sleeping and breathing and eating—in peace, in peace—and rest over my corpse, they keep her away. They walk through a body as if the others have never been here at all—thieves, stealing among themselves—and the cycle is unbroken and yet new.
But Death has promised.
She has raised the tides of the sea and gathered the clouds in the sky, waiting, waiting for the moment—it is over, it is almost over—and She has vowed that We will keep her, she will return and she will never leave because We’ll keep her safe within the walls—
Death rises from the still water pool again and Her shadow slips within the rafters silently, curling around these thieves’ bodies, and she whispers, her promise ice-cold:
They’re next.
When she wakes, Marina waits for a moment before blinking her eyes open. The backs of her bare arms shift against the comforting scratch of a well-worn cloth covering the sofa, and her toes are wrapped in new socks.
“Marina?”
Haifa’s concerned face hovers over her, fills her vision when she finally opens her eyes. Her mother kisses her forehead and pushes the hair back from her head gently.
“Marina, sweetie, how are you feeling?”
“Marina? Is Marina up?” Behind her, Rania appears in the kitchen door, wiping her hands with a dish towel. Anxiety quickens her words.
“Hi. I’m up.” Wincing, Marina pushes herself up. “I’m fine. Now—I feel fine now.”
“Oh, honey, you scared me so much.” Haifa’s careful mask of composure has fallen into worried relief. “I just saw someone on the sidewalk—I didn’t think it was my own daughter—and when I saw the hospital gown, and got closer, it was like—”
“Haifa,” Rania interrupts. She sits beside them on a reclining chair. “She’s still waking up.”
Marina smiles a little despite herself. Rania’s presence has almost become like a security blanket for Marina in this haunted city.
The elderly woman reminds her of her own tata in the smallest ways: she curls one finger to beckon people over, she drinks her coffee black, and she hugs and kisses aggressively, as if time is running out.
“I can finally breathe.” And it’s true—in here, when she’s lying down, Marina’s lungs don’t fight her the way they did earlier that morning. Somewhere below, there is also a sense of completion. “How long have I been out?”
“Only a little while. You’re good.” Haifa picks Marina up by her arms and gently guides her to sit up. “Oh, I am so glad to see you. I’ve missed you so much,” she says, elongating the words so they stretch out with the tight hug she gives Marina.
“I missed you too. A lot.” Marina pulls back gently and looks to Rania. “I think … I think I sleepwalked.”
“Sleepwalked? Honey, you were soaking wet! What happened?” Haifa asks. “I used to sleepwalk as a kid, but never like that.”
Haifa remains seated by her, one thumb rubbing against her shoulder to soothe.
Smog and cigarette smoke hang over her. Her hair is unkempt and flattened, likely from leaning against headrests for the past twenty-four hours.
Tired, too, are her eyes and the bags that accompany them, but they crinkle with a smile when they meet Marina’s.
She wonders if her mother saw the bullet holes in the building near the bus station.
“I—I don’t know,” Marina says, realizing it’s the truth.
“And you made it all the way to the beach.” Rania puts one hand up to her cheek. “Maybe tonight, it’s better that you both stay here. I can keep an eye on you.”
“No please, khalto, I don’t—”
“Haifa. Please stay here. Just for tonight, at least.”
“We have family in Nazareth. Just a short drive away—it would be better to stay with them.”
“Stay here for a couple of nights. Let Marina rest, and then you can go.”
Haifa pauses, then nods. “Okay.”
“Marina, habibti, you came back screaming. About Tariq.” Rania shifts and leans forward in her seat. Her eyes search Marina’s. “What was that? Why did you—?”