Chapter 12. The Path of the Moon #3
“I think—I think my great-uncle was buried in one too,” she says haltingly. “In one of the graves by the beach.”
“How do you know?”
“Just … a feeling. That he’s there.”
Khaled lets the air deflate out of his lungs in a sigh that comes through flapped lips. He stares at her for a moment. “A feeling?”
“Based on my grandmother’s journals. Yeah,” she says.
“Right. The journals.” Khaled leans back from the railing. “So what are you going to do about it? Now that you feel you know where he is.”
I’m going to dig it up. The thought comes to her like lightning.
Marina shakes her head and shrugs. “Ah—nothing.”
“Nothing? You’re sure?” It’s plain on his face that he’s concerned about her mental state after the hospital.
“Yep.”
“You’re not going to attempt to do something stupid? While soldiers roam every inch of these streets? And the fact that there’s a huge storm tonight?”
The storm. That would be the ideal cover under which she could steal a jackhammer—maybe from a nearby construction site?—and dig below the parking lot.
“Nope.”
His eyes search hers again; his face shows the same concern he had at the hospital. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Marina nods.
“Come on.” He starts walking toward the car. “We should get back.”
“Great,” Marina says, forcing her voice to maintain an evenness.
Darkness descends over the sea heavily and immediately. Marina turns to look out, where thick clouds have gathered silently and now block out the sun. In the far distance, sheets of rain fall over the sea, and soon they will fall over the city.
The storm isn’t here yet, but it will be.
Haifa shifts her weight on the sofa—it’s old and threadbare, and she can feel the springs beneath her.
She and Rania have spent the afternoon in the church, and now, without any other distractions, Haifa is forced to confront her mother’s secrets.
Philippe’s verandah is otherwise beautiful: the twilight streams in, adding a melancholy from the outside to the joy of small things inside: a vase filled with freshly cut flowers, a tray of sweets from the shop, tiny wallet-sized photographs of grandchildren propped up on a side table.
The flowers are pink, with round petals and an inner ring of darker pink.
“So you knew about Tariq?” Haifa asks.
Philippe sighs heavily. His shirt stretches over his kersh and hair pops out of him everywhere: through the top of his shirt, through his nostrils, from within his ears.
He is a big, imposing man with the soul of a butterfly.
She hasn’t seen him in decades now, but he’s still the Philippe she remembers.
“Yes. My mother told me about him when I was old enough to learn.”
“What did you know about him?”
Philippe takes his cup of qahweh in his hands and rests it atop his belly.
“Mama told us that she didn’t know him well since he was the youngest in the family.
She was so much older than your mom and him.
” He pushes up his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“But she said he was a scamp. He loved playing by the sea. He was kind of a troublemaker, too. She said he would often sneak sweets and chocolates that were hidden in high cupboards. He stood atop some concoction of tables and chairs to get to them, and once, he fell and broke a wrist—tsk, did he get in trouble for that one.”
Haifa smiles, imagining her uncle as a child. It’s hard to put a face to someone she’s never met before, but his personality is being colored in. Philippe speaks of him in exact, measured words; he’s repeating the same stories that were told to him.
“Do you have any pictures?”
“Yes, of course. Lina!” he calls.
His wife, a slender woman whose graying black hair is pulled back into a bun, stands at the doorway. “Na’am?”
“Can you get the photo album with Tariq in it?”
She nods and disappears for a moment. Her footsteps tap against the stone floor as she comes back in with a massive album in her arms.
“Here.” Philippe leans forward as Lina opens the album, flipping to the very beginning. “These are all of the old pictures I have of our side of the family. You can see—there’s Siham, my mom, and Nuhad together on the beach.”
Haifa runs her hands over the plastic, attempting to cement the photos to memory. Nuhad looked so happy, her hip bumping against her older sister’s as they stood in front of the waves.
“Habibti Nuhad,” Rania murmurs. Her fingers are beside Haifa’s, grazing the same photo.
“Here’s Tariq.” Philippe grunts as he leans forward even more, pointing to a page.
“He’s the baby?” Haifa frowns, trying to remember where she’s seen this picture before.
Tariq is in a baptismal gown and smiles without teeth.
“Oh! My mother has this picture. I’ve seen it before—in her box of photos.
” He’s been in her home this whole time—she just never knew. A pang slices through her heart.
Philippe nods. “I guess it’s the only photo of him that survived. They had to leave Haifa. You know. My mom was the only one left with any of these memories.” He flips to another page. “Here.”
“He’s grown up.” Tears spring suddenly to Haifa’s eyes as she sees her own mother’s face in his in a single page flip. He has big, round, warm brown eyes and the corners of his mouth are tugged up mischievously. Rania pats her back softly and Lina hands her a tissue. “Oh, my god.”
“This is how I remember him.”
Haifa dabs at her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed at breaking down. She clears her throat. “Why did my mother never talk about him? Why all of this secrecy?”
“Haifa, you have to understand…” Philippe trails off and searches for the right words. He sits back again in his chair. “It’s hard to relive this stuff. Especially for your mom.”
“Especially? Why?”
Philippe presses his lips together and shares a glance with his wife. “It’s just hard.”
Haifa looks at the two of them, her eyes darting back and forth. “He was shot, right?”
“I don’t know,” Rania says. Her voice is hushed. “Nuhad’s mother told her to swim for a boat, and she did. She never told me what happened after that.”
“Oh,” Haifa exhales. Here it is: the reason for Nuhad’s confession. She accidentally left her brother behind. A sudden sickness roils through her stomach, and she hinges forward, clutching her stomach as the wave of nausea passes.
“He was killed by a soldier. That’s all there is to know,” Philippe says. His mouth twists. “So many were killed by soldiers.”
“And buried somewhere we don’t know. In a mass grave, maybe.” Haifa’s voice drips in bitterness.
Philippe shares another glance with his wife. Rania keeps her gaze trained on the photographs.
“It’s painful, Haifa.”
Thunder booms in the distance, and Lina stands to close the door. Rain begins to fall in droplets that tap, tap, tap against the glass like little fingers asking to be let inside.
“And after the war?” Haifa asks.
“They moved here. Auntie Nuhad was my favorite.” Philippe smiles at a memory.
“They opened the sweetshop and acclimated to their new life. What else can you do? Nazareth is not so far from Haifa, ya’ani, but it was a big change.
Their home was gone. I don’t know. She was always so playful and fun when we were together, but there were times… ”
He trails off, and Haifa knows he’s seen the mother she grew up with. Her heart hurts—not just the flesh, but the chest and the rib cage and the lungs that all surround it begin to ache. Her mother had to endure so much that it fundamentally changed who she was as a person, even into adulthood.
“Can I please … use your washroom?” Haifa stutters through the question, wincing from pain.
Lina points her down the hallway and Haifa clutches the wall papered in purple flowers against a white and green background as she walks.
There is a mirror—a great, big, round mirror with gold gilding at its edges—hanging at the end of the hall.
Haifa pauses in front of it, holding on to both sides, and looks at her tired eyes with dark circles; some stress acne that’s popped up on her forehead; her frizzy hair and the sheen of humidity that has collected on her skin.
And there—
behind Haifa, is a figure. She squints.
“Mama?” she wants to whisper, but her voice is caught in her throat. Nuhad has finally returned.
The ghostly, pale figure flickers in the low hallway lighting as she comes up behind Haifa and looks at her from over her shoulder. Her face is a gaunt calm. Haifa is frozen, too terrified to turn around and lose her, and her eyes remain on Nuhad. Unblinking.
Go home.
Nuhad smiles at her, and there is a softness in this longing sadness that Haifa’s never seen before.
Go home.
Haifa understands. She nods.