In the Language of Miracles by Rajia Hassib Page B

message, sending it to her with no comment. Of all the people he knew, Brittany was the only one who would read such an article.
    Closing his laptop, he turned the lights off and slid under his covers. Ehsan’s and Fatima’s whispers had finally abated, and, his eyes closed, he savored the anticipation of Brittany’s reply and waited for sleep to come tohim.

THURSDAY

4
    ENGLISH : Till death do us part.
    From the marriage liturgy, the Book of Common Prayer
    ARABIC : Among all the permitted acts, divorce is the most hateful to God.
    Saying of the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon his soul
    N agla waited in bed until she heard the garage door rise and fall, signaling Samir’s departure. As soon as she was sure he was gone, she walked down to the kitchen for a cup of hot tea and then back up to her room. Today, she would clean house, starting with her bedroom. She dumped the contents of every drawer on the bed, folding everything: her underwear and Samir’s, his socks, her camisoles, his pajamas, her nightshirts. Usually, this repetitiveness soothed her, and the process, like meditation, kept her mind from drifting to troublesome territories. Today, though, undershirts seemed determined to crease rather than fold, and socks remained mismatched even after she had gone through all the drawers and emptied the laundry pail on the floor, zealously looking for missing socks as if their discovery would afford the key to heaven or the power to stop all evil.
    â€œVexation,” she murmured to herself as she stuffed the laundry back into the pail. “Just pure vexation.”
    She abandoned the folding and walked into the closet she sharedwith Samir, examining every shirt and pair of pants for possible donations, yanking out items she decided he did not need and putting them in a pile and then adding two of her own shirts. Years earlier, Ehsan had told her the story of a disgruntled wife who sold her husband’s favorite razor to a traveling street vendor while her husband was at work. Ehsan had whispered the story in a mixture of awe and disgust. “Such disrespect,” Ehsan spat, implying that she, of course, would never have done any such thing to
her
late husband. Nagla, in a logic she still failed to comprehend, had despised the woman based on her hypothetical offense to Nagla’s own father. Of course Ehsan never would have sold his razor. Nagla eyed Samir’s favorite shirt and walked out of the closet to thwart temptation.
    â€œSo energetic so early in the morning?” Ehsan asked.
    Nagla turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway, her own teacup in hand.
    â€œGood morning, Mama. Come. Sit with me.”
    Ehsan made her way to her daughter’s bed, placing her teacup on the bedside table before climbing up on Nagla’s side of the bed, her back resting against the headboard. Nagla continued sorting through the pile of clothes, aware of her mother’s watchful eye.
    â€œNo breakfast today?” Ehsan asked.
    â€œDon’t feel like it.”
    Ehsan nodded, and then she sighed. Nagla waited. When she was a child, she used to come home and join her mother in the kitchen, help her peel potatoes and pick through rice, and all the while Ehsan would listen as she gushed about everything that happened in her day. Nagla wished she could still report cut knees, spiteful playmates, and unfair teachers who picked favorites based on fair skin and deep parental pockets.
    â€œI don’t know what this woman was thinking, walking in here yesterday,” Ehsan started.
    â€œShe was just being nice, Mama.”
    â€œShe only caused you to have a fight with your husband.”
    â€œShe had no way of knowing this would happen.”
    Ehsan sucked at her lips, a long
tsssp
that Nagla understood well.
    â€œYou don’t know her, Mama. She wouldn’t mean ill. She’s a very nice person.”
    â€œBy Allah, you’re the only nice one. You believe this whole