Chapter 13. Return #2
“Marina?” she whispers. Haifa tiptoes to the bathroom, but the door is open and no one is inside. Her voice becomes louder. “Marina?”
Haifa checks the other bedroom, where Khaled would be. She knocks, but in the silence, she opens it slowly.
“Khaled?”
His bed is empty, too.
“Marina?” Haifa calls, her voice becoming louder and more frantic. “Marina? Khaled?” But there is no response.
“Haifa?” Rania stands in the doorway of her bedroom, her nightgown askew. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, auntie, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Haifa shakes her head. “Marina and Khaled aren’t here.”
“What?” Rania’s face hangs with worry. “Where could they be?”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Haifa says, but her heart beats out the same pattern of anxiety. “I’ll go look for them.”
“I’ll come with you.” Rania turns around and picks up some clothes that hang off the side of her hamper. “Just give me a moment.”
Haifa shakes her head, feeling the weight of a greater worry sink into her stomach. Rain thrashes against the window and her exposed flesh rises in goose bumps. “No. No. I have to find them now. I’ll go alone.”
“Be safe.” Rania presses a warm hand against Haifa’s arm.
“It’ll be okay.” Haifa reassures her as much as she reassures herself.
“Take the car.” Rania fumbles for the keys and presses them into her hand.
Haifa takes them, but as she leaves, taking the last step outside, she turns and sees the empty space where Rania’s car should be. The storm has worsened. Water droplets pelt her like small bullets. She uses her arms to protect her head.
Haifa wants to scour the city for Marina and Khaled, but there is only one place Marina would go in a storm like this. She can feel it as deeply in her bones as the words that echo in her mind.
Go home.
Her footsteps are drawn to the house; they already know exactly where they need to go, despite slipping against the wet cobblestone. The pull is almost spiritual. Soon she is entirely soaked through—not a spot of her clothing is dry.
Go home.
She does. She stands in front of her mother’s childhood home.
It happens in a flash, and later, Marina will play and replay it in her mind like a film. Each time, she will be surprised.
The wind picks up speed, its anger lashing out at the city.
Breath is stolen right from Marina’s lungs, but it’s not because two soldiers are running toward her with guns; no, it is swept away by the sight of a tornado the likes of which she’s never seen before.
Water spirals in a column of air, and though it’s small, up close it appears to be larger than the skyscrapers in the distance.
It towers over Marina, winding and spitting salt in every direction as it whirls closer.
Khaled’s fingernails dig into her arm at the same time that one of the soldiers stops in his tracks. Pulling Marina toward him, Khaled shoves her in between his body and a nearby pillar, and his arms encircle her and the jackhammer and lock them both into place around the concrete.
Water spears through her clothing and stabs at her skin with powerful, small daggers the wind throws. Through the gap in between Khaled’s arm and his head, Marina can still see.
The soldier who stopped looks up in horror and tries to grab his partner, but only finds air, for the man is already running toward them, his gaze deadly and immovable. He lifts his gun, and even from here, Marina can see his finger move for the trigger.
Breathe.
The flickering streetlight now dies completely; in fact, all of the light from nearby buildings goes black. The moon is cloaked in gray storm clouds, and so it is in complete darkness, blurred by water, that Marina sees these things.
The tornado roars, rushing a column of air that moves toward the running soldier. It picks him up and throws him somewhere—Marina can’t see. She only hears the faintest echo of his cry as he is taken up.
The other soldier, his face a mask of terror now, turns back and runs.
But the wind, hungry for more, has a fallen tree trunk in its maw.
It spits it out and the wood lands with a sickening crack against the soldier.
He falls to the ground, and in the darkness, there is only the flapping of the branches over his body.
The tornado moves south, away from them, and in its absence, Marina can finally find oxygen.
“Was that a tornado?”
“A waterspout. It must have been,” Khaled releases Marina from his grip and rubs at his shoulders, wincing.
“Are you okay?” She reaches gently for his arm.
“Fine, fine. Just sore from holding on so tightly. I was worried that we would be blown away.”
Marina stumbles back into his embrace, wrapping her arms around him. “Thank you,” she mumbles into the wet fabric of his shirt and skin. He squeezes back gently.
“Come on,” she says, pulling away. “That was a sign.”
For once, Khaled can’t argue. He stands off to the side, near Rania’s car, as Marina grabs on to the handle, praying it still works despite being soaked through.
She deflates with relief as it starts. In the constant thunder, the roar of the jackhammer is hardly heard.
It vibrates beneath her, and she grips tightly to direct it right above the pile of salt, the one that still remains perfectly in place.
The jackhammer shakes with power beneath her hands, but it is as if it understands her mind. Bits of tar fly into the air as Marina grits her teeth, keeping it steady over the salt. It is only a few moments—
“Here! Khaled!” Marina screams, but there is no need to. He’s running for her as soon as her knees fall to the destroyed earth.
He picks up where she can’t, using his hands to claw away bits of earth. She watches, suspended in a type of horrified stupor, as the image becomes clearer—even in darkness.
They’re decayed, but it’s clear that there are body bags buried beneath this parking lot. They come apart in degraded pieces as Khaled continues to claw his way through, bits of yellowed bags for some, cloth for others.
And there are the skeletons. They are all bones. Skulls. Femurs.
And Marina finds the smallest skeleton in this tiny spot of dug earth—the one with salt flakes dusted on its surface—and she carries him in her arms. She cries for the boy that she never knew, letting the wind steal her cries and letting the water wash away her tears.
She didn’t expect to feel like this. She didn’t even know her uncle. But there is an overwhelming, consuming feeling taking root in her heart: these were all people. Every bag. Every bone. They all had lives, hopes, dreams, memories, wishes, inside jokes, favorite recipes, plans for the future—
And this is only a small part of the earth, here. This is just the salt spot. With Tariq in her arms, she looks across the expanse of the parking lot.
And she weeps.
“Marina. Oh, my god.” Khaled takes two steps back and covers his mouth in horror at the mass grave. “My god.”
Marina turns away but in front of her stands a ghost.
Tariq, his image flickering in and out, points to the body in her arms. He takes her hand and leads her away. Marina doesn’t look behind for Khaled—she knows he will find a proper burial site for the rest.
Her chest feels squeezed and strange, and no matter how many deep breaths she tries to take, she can’t get enough. Her legs stumble and her arms clutch tightly to Tariq’s body. Bones don’t weigh very much, and the wind is strong.
Tariq leads her home.
Haifa crouches behind the corner of a stoop as she sees the front door of the house open. Two men dressed in police uniforms come out, shielding themselves from the rain with their arms. Invisible hands plaster a new FOR SALE sign in the window.
Rania had only told her this evening that a couple had moved in.
And she was right about the pattern—the house would kill them, or force them out, and they would sell it again.
Another man exits, smiling with white teeth.
He smooths his wet hair down while shaking the police officers’ hands—already, they are trying to sell the house, again and again, despite whatever could have occurred inside.
Just as they have done for years, since Nuhad was torn from her home as a young girl.
Her mother’s house—haunted.
The police officers climb down the stairs and get in their car, the lights flashing for a silent few seconds until they turn them off and leave.
The realtor hovers in the doorway, watching them for a moment.
His smile falls from his face as he retreats back into the house. Something about him is plastic.
Rain trickles inside of Haifa’s shirt, invading her skin.
She moves like the water itself and slides against the back door.
It’s unlocked. She hopes that Marina isn’t inside hiding from the realtor, but a wild, desperate desire flares in her heart—to convene with her daughter here, in her mother’s home, before it is sold again.
Haifa whispers a prayer as she opens it gently, holding her breath as she does. Her feet steal through the back storage room of the storefront. There are narrow, wooden stairs here that lead to a door above. Water drips off of her and dampens the floor.
She tries the latch, holding her breath, and it opens silently.
The kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen.
Yes,
yessss—
I feel her. I feel the blood of the Sayadi family my family within my stones. I can feel her Nuhad attempting to slip in.
She is so close. She remembers, just like me. It’s Haifa Nuhad. I know her blood like I know the stones. There. The shelf of small things. The scent of mjaddara in the winter. I feel her. She’s in my bones my lungs.
My family has returned they will never leave.
The first look of the house brings unexpected tears to Haifa’s eyes.
This is it—her mother’s home. Her home, even.
Tears spill from the corners of her eyes, and it feels like she is one with her lost city; they both weep for history, for lost lives and stories, and through her blurred vision she sees
her mother doing her homework on the kitchen table, while