We didn't have a car. Remember? To see me, you had to duck into the subway at El Sadat or Mohamed Naguib and grip a sticky metal bar as the train bounced south, past the floating crosses at Mar Girgis, the flashing yelling market at Dar Es Salaam, past El Maadi as people bunched by the doors and the cars emptied out. You would slip into one of the orange plastic seats and stare out the window, eyes drifting against the blocky cement buildings, the flapping laundry and scraggly palm trees, riding all the way to the end of the line. Helwan. The train would shudder to a stop, its doors sliding open. The air was thick with cement dust, worse than downtown Cairo. You would pull out a shirtsleeve and stand for a moment, sucking air through it. Taxis would be waiting on the street, hailing you, and you would hurry down the stairs and jerk open a door, say you were visiting the hospital. Maybe the driver would look over his shoulder and feel a little sorry.
      Sweet Magdy. You brought me my red slippers and packets of anise tea and our stereo from home, CDs jumbled together in a plastic bag. Some days, we talked quietly about our neighbors and your father's business and our plans to renovate the apartment. Some days, I threw out my hands and screamed, All your fault, you stupid stupid bastard, and you muttered, I know, just like they taught you, I know, until I ran out of screams and saw myself, ridiculous, and started giggling or crying and you pushed me up against your chest.
      I see you now, through the hazy café window. You're half-visible, gesturing at another man. My heart bunches up, still stung from your questions after two long, sober years: Why, Sara? Why?
     I let my foot off the gas and start around the block again.
     Why, Magdy, why? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

      It was late afternoon when they knocked at my door. I drew in sharp breath; I'd been lost in the tangle of my brain. I slid off the hospital bed and put on my slippers, hurrying toward the door as your father shut it quietly behind him. I turned around. The room was a mess. I turned back to say something, but your mother's veil was tight around her face and she looked past me, studying the chairs against the far wall. She waddled over and made a sucking noise in the back of her throat, the one that meant your father should hold the back of a chair as she lowered herself into it. She wiggled against the seat until she was steady, and he let go.
      "Ahlan." I welcomed them, and my throat clenched. I knew I should drop to my knees and kiss the insides of their hands, sob with relief that they'd come. But my knees were stiff and the room circled slowly around me. "Do you want anything?" I tried to steady myself. "Tea? Can I order something?"
      Your father shook his head and mumbled into his lap. I leaned in, but I wasn't sure what he'd said.
     "Nothing?"
      Your mother raised her eyes. "Don't bother about us. We won't stay long."
      My stomach buckled, and it was an effort to stay upright. You won't believe it now, but your mother used to love me. She used to grin when she opened the door and saw it was me. She would hurry-waddle into the kitchen and get something special out of the fridge, stuffed grape leaves or basboussa. She was thrilled to have a daughter-in-law in med school, an Egyptian girl who grew up in America. Not like my mother, who hated the American in me, who cursed that I was dirty, spoiled.
     "Are you sure?" I smiled at her, trying to remind her of who I really was. "Because I can order something. The nurses are right outside. Or I can call. I'll call." I took a half-step back, toward the phone. "Sara." Your mother looked over sharply, like we'd had this conversation before and I hadn't listened the first time. Then she sighed and put her hands to her forehead, pushing imaginary stray hairs back under her veil. "Sit."
      I nodded and backed up, stumbling into one of the white wicker chairs by the bed. That room, you remember, was hideous--all bright pinks and oranges. It was crowded with wicker chairs and little glass tables and footrests--enough for the whole neighborhood to jostle in and watch while you struggled to sit up or pee through a tube. There were ashtrays everywhere. I wanted to light a cigarette, but I remembered your father and bit down on my cheek.
      "How are your parents?" he asked.
      "Fine, hamdullallah," I told him, in a rush, my cigarette hand twitching. I was afraid we would never get through that part of the conversation. Fine, hamdullallah. Hamdullallah. Fine. "And how is your health?" I asked, and saw your mother answer. I kept talking, my mouth moving somehow, remembering the words by itself while I thought about you, needing your arms around me, your warm chest, and my neck itched, my hair, my scalp. I wanted to pull off my skin, all of it, rip it over my head like an ugly black mlaya. I held my hands in front of me, squeezing them, trying to stay still. "Hamdullallah."
      "Sara." Your mother was looking at me now, her light brown eyes burning against my skin. I wanted to put my hands out, to hold something between her eyes and mine. "Magdy is trying to put his life back together."
      I nodded. Putting your life back together. Good.
      "The Prophet, peace be upon him, said, 'He who returns from sin is like one who has no sin.'"
      I tried to focus. The Prophet. Peace.
      "To make a fresh start, he will need new associations, new people." She straightened her veil and looked out the window, squinting at something in the distance. "He will need a divorce."
      I heard the heavy Arabic word, talla', but it didn't mean anything. It fluttered and knocked against walls for a moment, like a bird. Then it disappeared.
      "Sara, did you hear me?"
I nodded quickly and smiled. "Things are difficult right now, I understand that. But me and Magdy--"
      "Sara, really. With Magdy, I wasn't surprised, but a smart girl like you…." She looked back at the window. "You know this is only a courtesy." The words knocked the air out of me. Then her hand was flopping in the air, waving, and your father held the chair as she stood up.
      "God be with you," he grumbled.
      They turned and I couldn't see them--there was a rush of blackness and everything fell into it. I wanted to run after them the way I used to run after you--tear at their clothing, scream into their ears, beg--but my feet were s tuck to the floor, my throat was thick and the room tumbled around me.
      Your mother used to love me. Don't you remember? She would rub her shoulder and say, It hurts, and I would feel it, serious, ask her about the pain and we would diagnose it together, paging through my textbooks. She used to love to learn new things, was still angry at your grandfather for saying, No when the government came to his door, No, I don't have any girls to put in school. She was always trying to make up for it, to catch up with the ones who had gone to school, and I was just as eager to help, to teach her anything I knew.

      The blackness drained away and my hands were slapping against my legs, trembling. I dug in my pocket for my mobile. You would be there; you would tell me it was some sort of misunderstanding. A joke. I listened to the phone ring as I squeezed past the nurses, down the stairs, out onto the dusty street. It was the start of the khamseen season and the sky was bright yellow-brown. My eyes were half-shut, my mouth closed as I hurried over to the recovery house. I was still in my slippers. The house had 40, 50 men back then--all junkies, brothers, brother-junkies--and who needs to wear shoes around them?
      "What is it Sara?" Your voice was hard, fast, and I couldn't get my breath for a moment, you sounded so balled up. But then you were gentler, breathy, like you were cupping the phone against your mouth. "Sorry sweetheart, I'm in a meeting. What is it?"
      "Your parents were here." There were tears sliding down my face again--you wouldn't think I'd have any left but I did, they just kept coming --and my throat was sore and my face hurt but I tried to hold it in, talk naturally.
     "My parents were there?"
      I kept my voice steady, shoved the words out. "They said you want a divorce."
      You were silent for a moment, like you were listening to some distant conversation.
      "No, Sara. Definitely no. We are sticking together, habibti. You and me… We've made it this far, haven't we? You know I couldn't live without you."
      "I…" I felt rubbery, and I buckled into one of the hard plastic chairs in the lobby.
      "Can we talk later, sweetheart?"
      "Okay." One of the new guys crouched in a chair opposite, staring at me. I turned toward the wall, leaning into the phone. "I love you."
      Your voice was quiet now, a whisper. "Love you too." You clicked off.
      I stared at the phone for a moment, then locked the keypad and shoved it into my pocket.
      The new guy leaned forward. "Who was that?"
      I couldn't think. The room was dark, wobbly, and I squirmed in the chair, slippers loose from my feet like gaping mouths. The new guy stared at me, nostrils flaring. Then the room lit up, everything clear again. "My husband."
      "Oh. He an addict too?"
      "Recovering." I stiffened and looked up at the television. How did this guy know my story? Then I loosened my jaw, remembering. Girl junkie means boy junkie, too.
      You. My stupid, beautiful boy junkie. I still don't know whether I'm grateful or furious that baba decided America was turning me and Hanan into little whores, decided we should move to a crowded, dusty country that we'd seen only twice, a place where we didn't know anyone and didn't speak the language. The language was the least of it. It was being watched that I couldn't get used to, having people report back to my parents every time I smoked, talked to a boy, crossed the goddamn street. And then I met you. The boy who could make me disappear.
      You were so soft, so quiet--only a year ahead of me at the American school, but you seemed so much older--and when you handed me a cigarette, it was like magic. No one could see it. You taught me how to keep one face smiling and nodding to all the old uncles and aunties while really, I was sneaking down the stairs, to you.
      When you started using… I don't know. When did you start? I was at your friend's apartment, Ahmed, and it was there all of a sudden, like a fact, something hidden from me and then revealed. I felt awed to be let in on the secret. I giggled, looking over at Ahmed's lazy grin--scared and awed and scared--as he handed me the pipe. You took me home that night, helped me organize my arms and legs and make the other face, the responsible face. My parents looked right at us, but they didn't see what was really there.
     

     I stared at the lobby TV--some awful soap opera, a woman flinging out her arms and shaking her hips. The new guy slapped his big hands together. "You're married?"
      "Yeah." I touched the ring.
      "That's good. He hasn't asked for a divorce."
      "Why would he do that?" My skin crawled, covered in little bubbles, and I scratched all over.
      "Sorry."
      He was quiet. I itched and scratched as the silence grew, pushing tight against my eardrums.
      "His parents asked for a divorce." The words dumped out of my mouth. "But not Magdy. He's been great. Standing by me."
      "Oh."
      I was angry--at you for not being there, at myself for sounding like such a stupid girl. At this new guy, for listening. "You just don't understand Magdy. My first summer in Egypt, I was in Sharm with my parents. Magdy and I had only been dating for maybe a few months, but he came and visited me every week. He would take the bus--seven hours on that shitty East Delta line--sometimes just to be there for two hours."
      "Huh."
      I was scratching lines into my skin, trace marks up and down my arms. "Why did you say that, about divorce?"
      "No reason." He shook his head. "I don't even know him."
      "You don't."
      We were sitting again, silent, and I stared at his nose as I scratched and scratched. His face was covered in fleshy little bumps. He didn't look at all like you--your sweet, smooth nose, your gold-brown eyes, soft mouth.
      "But he's an addict," he said.
      "Recovering." The girl on the television yelled at an older woman in a mlaya. "I'm the one who made him quit," I said.
      "Oh."
      And I couldn't stop myself; I was telling the story.
      "He came back from detox in December. The recovery house wouldn't take him for three days, can you believe that? So I locked our door and threw away the spare keys. Then I strung the one around my neck. He broke everything--ripped my blouses, smashed the television, threw our dishes on the floor--he begged and cried and sweated, just like it was a movie. But I didn't let him out."
      Remember? I dozed off once, leaning against the front door. I woke up and you had my phone; you were running down the stairs. I was half-dressed--only a little tank top and shorts … I ran after you in my bare feet, sliding down the concrete stairs, down to the street. I grabbed you by the shirtsleeve, and you turned around and screamed at me. 'I will smoke! I will smoke!'
      The dealer got scared and ran away. Your face changed. I saw…it grew or shrank or… You took my arm and said, 'You want me to hit you? Because I will.'
      I knew you couldn't. Poor Magdy, you never even pushed me, never even poked me in all the time we were married. But I screamed, 'You think that's going to hurt me any more than I'm already hurting?' I walked out into the street--cars rushing by--and I spread out my arms and yelled, 'You think I'm afraid to be hurt?' I was out there in the middle of traffic, laughing. And then somehow we were both laughing, ducking our heads as we ran inside, like we were coming in out of a rainstorm.
      I put the boiler on and we both had tea, giggling. Because I would swear it wasn't real. I told you that. 'This is a movie. This isn't our real lives; it's a movie.'
      We were sitting there, drinking tea, when you thanked me. Your face got solid and dark and you were banging your fist against your leg. 'I almost fucked everything up Sara,' you said. 'I almost fucked everything up.' I never told you, but it scared me, to be thanked like that. I wanted to open the door, to run back after the dealer…
      "Maybe I didn't want to stop him," I told the new guy, feeling a little crazy, looking up at the television. "Maybe I just wanted my phone. Anyway, I was always relieved when he relapsed. I was pushing him to smoke. Sometimes… Sometimes I'd even nudge him, wink and say, 'Let's smoke a little. Come on. Let's smoke.'"
      Is it true? Do you remember it like that? I don't know any more…. But it changed something, telling the story that way. I felt sick. Confused. We kept sitting for a while. I never asked his story, I just sat until he finally got up and left. It was dark then, and I kicked the chairs, lonely and angry and needing so badly to be in your arms. Then I sat still and forced myself to imagine my safe place.
     

      I've told you about my safe place.
      Florida. We'd had hurricanes maybe once a year. Every two years. Some families would evacuate during a hurricane, but not the Aarefs. Not after my parents worked so hard to reach land, to build up a home, a fence. We would put plastic over the windows, hold boards steady as my father pounded in nails, as the winds picked up, our black hair swirling around our heads, the air heavy with salt. We would fill plastic jugs with water and line them up against the wall. Then we would take everything inside, the plants and lawn chairs and birdhouses, lock the door and go into the kitchen--the middle of the middle of the house--and we would be quiet. For the day or two it took for the storm to pass, we would be quiet. The lights would flicker out; the water would cut off. But we wouldn't argue. We would stay in the kitchen, silent. Baba would stare into his glass of tea, shoulders hunched. Mama would rub her hands together and shiver, moving from the fridge to her kitchen chair, touching both as she walked. Hanan would put her finger to her tongue and draw pictures on the table, the lines evaporating behind her. And me? I snuck up to windows, put my cheek to the cold door. I wanted to see the destruction outside--to tear at the knob and run out into the screaming winds, the beautiful, dark waves crashing down on the shore, the gorgeous gray-green of the sky, wild and dark. But I didn't. Mama pulled me away from the door, silent, and held my hand as I sat at the table.

It was dark and there was a layer of grit on everything when I walked back over to the hospital, the men staring at me as they came into the recovery house. I nodded at the doorman, careful on the sidewalk and then all the nurses again, everyone watching and checking and taking notes.
      I closed the door to my room. My shoulders dropped and I leaned against the wall, dragging in deep breaths, feeling a little space between me and the storm. I knew that you and I were reaching the end of our troubles. I knew that we could make it.
      Then baba called.
      "We're coming now," he said. "Is the doctor there? I want to talk to the doctor."
      "You know Dr. Ehab's gone for the day."
      "But you're there."
      I had both hands on the phone. "Of course I'm here."
      "Well, sometimes you don't know," he said. "Your mother and I are coming over."
      "Okay. " I sat on the hard, orange bed, staring at the wall.
      I thought, then, that we still had months to sort it out--where I could go, what was safe. I was frantic, but lazy. I still didn't know that it could all come upon me so quickly, without warning.
     

      My father came in first, nodding as he saw me. My mother followed. She was in a dark, shapeless blue and she touched the walls and the chair before she sat down, feeling her way through the room like she didn't want to look at anything too closely.
      "Magdy's father called," my dad said.
      "Oh." My leg was trembling and my slipper fell off.
      "He talked with me about the divorce."
      I felt scattered. I reached down to pick up the slipper, fingertips on the floor. "That's just them. It's their idea. I called Magdy and he didn't know anything about it."
      "Mm." My father looked at his palms, as if weighing something invisible. "But you know they're right. A divorce will be the best for both of you."
      "What are you talking about? You hate divorce. When Magdy was… And anyway, we made it now. We made it." I yanked the blanket off the bed, pulling it around my shoulders. "Why would we give up now?"
      He nodded and looked behind me. "When you're old like me, you'll understand." "What do you mean by that? What's going on?" My skin was crawling, itching.
      "Sara. They're discharging you tomorrow."
      My hands shook, but I smoothed down my hair, trying to stay rational. "I thought you said I was staying for at least another month. What if I'm not ready?"
      "Dr. Ehab thinks you're ready."
      "I don't believe you. You know it's because of the money. You don't care about me, you just hate paying the--"
      "Do not talk to me about money, young lady. You have no idea…." He ground his teeth and looked out the window. "The world is not in here, ya Sara. It's out there." He stabbed a finger toward the window, toward the drifting sand and broken sidewalk, the streets that went one place and not another. I pulled the blanket tighter.
      "When did he say that?"
      "What?"
      "When did Dr. Ehab say that I was ready for discharge?"
      "He was talking with Magdy--"
      "With Magdy? I mean, what am…" I felt like I was choking. "Was anyone going to tell me about this?"
      "Stop being a child, Sara. I am telling you about this."
      "So then what?"
      He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, like he didn't understand what I was saying.
     
      "They discharge me and then what?"
      "Then you come home. With your mother and I."
      "And if I don't want to?"
      He stared at me. "Where else are you going to go?"
      I looked down at my hands and they were trembling, my right balled into a fist. I saw myself in a whirl of clubs, dating, falling in love again, noise and smoke. No. I knew you would be there to get me. I saw you roll to a stop out front and dash up the stairs, put me in the taxi, bring me back to our apartment. I saw how things could be normal--we could go to movies and have quiet dinners and laugh about the stupid shows on television, our stupid neighbors. I could go back to school.
      I turned to the wall, huddled in my blanket, and didn't say anything. Baba made a grunting noise and put his palms on his thighs, standing up. "We will be here early." He put a hand out for mama and I saw her, suddenly, as if she were only now visible. Then they were both standing, walking out the door.
     

     I crawled into the hospital bed, dragging the heavy orange blanket behind me. I wanted a cigarette but I'd forgotten where they were. I started to cry--I was so forgetful, stupid. I wiggled the phone out of my pocket and called you.
      "Sara."
      "Am I being discharged tomorrow?" My teeth were chattering and I tried to burrow down into the covers. You were silent, like my voice was traveling thousands of miles reach you. Remember, Magdy? Remember?
      "Now who told you that? It was supposed to be a surprise."
      "My dad," I said, and I was crying, tears soaking into the pillow. I held the phone tightly and closed my eyes.
      "He wasn't supposed to do that." Your voice was soft and tinny. "Don't cry, Sara. Please."
      "You're coming to get me tomorrow?"
      You were silent again and I waited, pulling the phone harder against my ear, squashing it, hurting.
      "Of course."
      "Okay." I let the phone go, a little. "Okay."
      "Sleep tonight, habibti. Rest."
      "Okay," I said again, feeling small and compliant. I breathed deeply. I wanted you to come tuck me in, your rough fingers against my cheek.
      "Good night," you said.
      "Good night." I switched off the phone and kissed it. I kissed it, Magdy. I was still crying. A thousand images swarmed me, all bunched and tearing inside my head. It seemed like we might wake up the next morning and our problems would be solved; we would be wearing white and could hold hands, watch the sun rise. I was still crying as I pulled the phone to my chest, holding it, burrowing down into the bed.

      At eight o'clock, a nurse flicked on the lights and grunted. Time to wake up. The lights were hard against my eyes and I pushed myself out of bed.
      I stared into the cracked hospital mirror as I washed my face. It surprised me somehow… I wasn't pretty again, recovered-looking. I looked down into the sink and watched the water circle away.
      I tugged on a clean shirt and started packing, rolling my jeans into balls and throwing them in my suitcases, kicking the bags around on the floor. The nurses looked in, whispering. I could feel their eyes on the back of my neck, making sure, telling each other, Yes. Yes, she's getting ready to go.
      My suitcases and bags were on the bed by nine and I sat, hands between my legs. I was ready to slash their faces, to kick, to bite, to stretch my arms across the doorframe as I was dragged out, to cling to the molding and scream. To wait for you, ya Magdy.
      But then it took so long. And I was so tired.
      My father finally arrived, brushing his hands together. My arms and legs were heavy and I sat there on the bed, head down.
      "Ready?" he asked.
      He fumbled around the room, touching all the half-empty glasses, searching under the tables and chairs. He got down on his knees and peered under the bed, drawing out a comb and an old paperback and a box of matches, frowning at me each time.
      "I'm not leaving," I told him, and he rolled his eyes, brushing off his pants.
      It had been so easy to stop using--just close my eyes and let someone else take hold of my shoulders. Just withdraw, retreat, board up the windows until the storm passes, until the wind no longer had the power to pick me up and slam me against walls. And here it was, time to go back out again.
      Baba stood by the door and rattled my bags. "Sara. Your mother is waiting."
      I wanted to say it again--I'm not leaving--but he looked down at me and my heart shrank. He stared at me, using some mute, fatherly power. His eyes dragged me off the bed and I stood up, trembling, and followed him down the stairs.

     At home, my father put me in the spare room and closed the door. I leaned out and closed the shutters. I pulled at the curtains, a ripping sound as I jerked them past the window. The house was silent.
      Then I heard it, my phone ringing. It was your ring. Somewhere out there, my phone was ringing. I jerked at the doorknob. It was locked. I pulled at the doorknob again, yelling to baba, screaming, kicking at the door, yanking at the doorknob, pounding my hip and my fists against the door, screaming, Come on This isn't funny now Let me out of here I mean it now, god-fucking-dammit ya baba I mean it now Let Me Out! I was crying and jerking the door handle, pulling on it with both hands. The wind was shrieking in my ears and I felt the rain and thunder in my chest, threatening to burst out of my throat, my eyes, my fist. I turned around to slam against the door with my back, pulling my elbows in, and I saw myself in the mirror, wild-faced and ugly. I held still. I saw myself.
      Your mother was right. I was a hurricane too: the one that threatened to seduce you, to rip you loose from your foundations, to toss you back into the cold, dark ocean.
      I backed up and stumbled onto the bed. I burrowed under the sheets--deeper, trying to get inside the mattress--and covered my ears with my hands. I lay there for weeks or months, as still as I could, and tried not to hear the phone ringing and ringing and ringing.

     I drive past the café window again. I got better, I got worse. I got worse, I got better. I didn't forget you. I couldn't forget you.
      The man is gone. You're staring at the wall, by yourself, mouth open.
      Oh, Magdy. I feel the hurricane is coming again, and I know that this time, I'm at the edges of the storm. It feels so safe, but this is where real damage is done. Where people are foolish enough to leave their bodies loose, untied.
      I drive past the café window, slowly, then faster, feeling the wind at my back, pushing me downtown to the places we used to go.