Emeralds

Four.

Four

[Adam]

I get home this afternoon after waiting for Malek to finish school and taking him to the mall because he wanted to buy a new toy.

“You’re late,” mom says when we enter the living room.

“Uncle Adam was buying me a new toy, teta (grandma),” Malek says showing her the new car we’ve bought.

“Ohh,” she says rubbing his back, “it’s really nice, Malek.”

“I’ll go try it upstairs,” he says taking off running already.

“Take care you’ll fall!” I say as he rushes past me.

We make sure Malak and Aisha have the childhood we weren’t allowed after father died. Most of our relatives lived either abroad or in the countryside and mom had no choice but to trust the manager and employees in father’s company until Omar was old enough to take care of the business. And they were honest and trustworthy.

Omar started working when he was twenty-two, two years after father died. He studied business, and did a great job to the company; our business even grew.

Hend comes downstairs fixing her hijab, and I look away. “Did you have lunch, Adam?” she asks.

“Yeah, Malek and I had our lunch at McDonald’s, we can wait till dinner.”

“Ok great, Omar will be here in two hours, we can have dinner then.”

“This is my turn to wash the dishes today,” mom says getting up. “I’ll go check if there’s anything now in the sink.”

“Don’t worry, mama,” Hend says, “Aya and I took care of the kitchen.”

Although we live in a quite big house–three wide floors, nine rooms with their bathrooms, a kitchen and a spacious reception–our women wouldn’t let a maid in. There’s a girl who comes every week does the mopping and those stuff, and that’s it. The rest of the housework is divided between mom, Mariam, Aya and Hend. Even Omar and I are forced to help sometimes, and we can’t even complain as Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) used to help in the housework. Sometimes when Ahmed comes he washes the dishes, too. Yeah, that’s how close that friend of mine is.

I spend the next two hours watching SpongeBob SquarePants and playing with Aisha, trying hopelessly to make her sleep so that we can have dinner. But seems like she’s the one who’s going to make me sleep. I yawn and fight my eyes to stay open. Then Aisha starts to cry, and it’s more like an ambulance siren. I jump up and carry her in my arms, swaying her gently but there’s no use. “Shhh, habibti,” I say.

I keep walking around the living room praying that she stops then Mariam comes and takes her. “She’s wet her diaper,” she says.

“OH MY GOD!” I reach my hands out for Mariam to wash her, “Go clean her and bring her back.”

“How will you be a dad?” she laughs.

“I don’t have to change diapers to be a dad,” I say raising an eyebrow. “Now move so I can watch the show.”

“You mean SpongeBob?” she asks suppressing a laugh.

“Yes SpongeBob, now go away, I already missed half the episode.”

“I hope you grow up one day,” she says shaking her head and getting out the door.

“I hope I don’t.”

Omar comes in as I’m turning the TV off, a short while later. “Assalmu’alikom,” he says.

“W’alikom Asslam,” I reply. “How was your day?”

“Full,” he sighs sitting down.

“Dinner will be ready in a minute,” Aya shows up at the door for an instant then half run half skate her way to the kitchen again.

“She’s all grown up now,” Omar says with a sad smile.

“Yeah, it feels like yesterday when she used to cry so that we take her when we go out.”

He laughs, “Yeah, for that I’m thankful she’s grown up now.”

“She was such a whiny girl!” I say loud enough that she hears me in the kitchen.

“And she still is!” Omar says loudly too.

“You both are very mean!” she shouts back. And we laugh at her.

That night we all pray Al-Isha together–Omar being the Imam–then I go to my room and enjoy the calmness of the night.

There’s a couple of emerald green eyes haunting me. The color is so intense, so strong, so full of greenness and it doesn’t go away. I haven’t even had a clear glimpse of the girl, but I suppose she was pretty.

I read in the book about Islamic history I’ve borrowed from Ahmed last week until I fall asleep.

Next morning, I wake up at 7:00 to take Malek to school. There’s a nagging hope that’s making me guilty. It’s the hope that I would find that girl again. I don’t know if she would come today, or if she’s a teacher, or even a mother. Yes, she could be a mother.

I graze my short beard then put on dark jeans and a white shirt and go downstairs. I find Malek waiting with his backpack on the floor, I carry it and give him a gentle push. He runs to the door and waves a goodbye to Hend who looks as sleepy as ever.

Would she be there today too? But what would I do if I find her? I won’t talk, I won’t look. Why am I even hoping?

~~~

I hope you loved this chapter! I know it's really short, but I'm trying to make the new ones longer ;) 

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Nouran.