In the Language of Miracles Read Online Free PDF Page B

not necessarily alarmed because he could see no fire, had tried to walk past them and up the stairs when Mrs. Russell held him by the arm and spoke in slow, deliberate English.
    â€œYou must tell your wife to be careful, or she will burn the building down!”
    When he looked at her, puzzled, she repeated her admonishment, word for word, only slower and louder. “You . . . must . . . tell . . . your . . . wife. Be . . . careful. Building . . . will . . . burn . . . down!” For added emphasis, she pointed at the building, lifted both arms high above her head, and then let them both drop.
    Upstairs, Hosaam was sitting in the crib Loula had given them, holding on to the rails and crying.
    â€œNagla?” Samir called. There was no answer, but he could hear whimpering. Before turning to head into the bedroom, Samir glanced toward the kitchen and saw a patch of dark soot on the ceiling. The entire apartment smelled like burned oil.
    She was sitting on the floor, in the corner between the bed and the wall, her legs drawn to her chest, her face buried in her knees, sobbing. Samir, speaking softly, sat down next to her.
    â€œNagla, what happened?”
    Looking up, Nagla covered her face with both hands and said, “I . . . was cooking. The . . . alarm,” she said, sobbing, “the fire . . . alarm . . . went off. I didn’t know it would. I was frying eggplants. I wanted to cook
musakka
.”
    Samir brushed her hair away from her face.
    â€œI tried to get up . . . on a chair, to see how to turn it off. It was very loud and . . . Hosaam . . . was sleeping. I could not, and I went to ask for help . . . I went to Mrs. Russell. When we came back . . . I forgot, you see, I had the oil on the stove,” she said, sobbing again. “It was on fire. I grabbed the pot and threw it in the sink, threw flour on it, and put it out. When I turned around, Mrs. Russell was not there. She called 911. She said . . . she said . . .”
    â€œShushhh,” Samir said, pulling her closer to him.
    â€œShe said this is not Africa, you don’t do that, you don’t set fires in the house,” Nagla said.
    â€œShushhh, it’s okay,
habibti,
it’s no big deal. It’s okay.”
    â€œI was so embarrassed, Samir! I was so scared and so embarrassed. I mean, Hosaam was here alone, when I went to get her,” she said, pulling away from him and looking him in the eyes. “I felt so, so stupid! What if something had happened to him?”
    â€œIt’s okay,
habibti,
nothing happened. It was only an accident.” He pulled her arms away from his neck and reached for her hands.
    â€œOuch!” she said, snatching her hands away from him.
    Only then did he see her hands wrapped in kitchen rags, the palms burned where she had held the hot skillet, both hands peppered with already-swollen blisters.
    Hours later, as he sat in the emergency room waiting for other doctors to treat his wife, Samir had thought about that apartment, that small apartment belonging to strangers who could tell him and his wife what they could and could not do, and he had thought of how miserable Nagla had been. He would, he promised himself, holding Hosaam tight, make it up to her. She would have her own home.
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    That thought was the one comfort he held during his three-year residency. Every trouble Nagla faced, he blamed on that apartment. Every time it snowed while he was at work, he would look out the window and think of her, trapped in a claustrophobic apartment with Hosaam, alone and undoubtedly weary of the boy’s understandable whining as he, too, suffered from loneliness and boredom. If they had been in a large house, things would have been easier for everyone. Hosaam would have had more room to play,