A Pure Heart Read online

  Rose sees herself as both Seth and Isis, killer and redeemer. She imagines that by collecting Gameela’s things she will put her sister together again and then instate her as queen of the underworld, empress of resurrection. She imagines Gameela whole again.

  ◆ 2 ◆

  Rose insists that Mark does not meet her at the airport. She texts him from London during her layover, repeats that meeting her would be irrational. Her plane is delayed—a computer glitch is grounding all flights—and she will most likely arrive in New York early the next morning. He must leave work if he is to meet her, which is foolish.

  I’m not a child. I can find my way home.

  She stares at her phone’s screen, the three quivering dots indicating that her husband is typing something.

  I know you can. Not a matter of ability.

  She waits to see if he will add anything. He does not.

  I’m exhausted. I’m going straight to bed once I’m home. I’ll call you when I get there.

  She clicks SEND and waits. The three dots appear, waver, and then disappear. He doesn’t write back, and she tucks her phone away.

  * * *

  —

  SHE IS TOO TIRED to take the subway, heads straight for the taxi line in front of the terminal, and avoids looking around just in case Mark has decided to come meet her against her wishes. In the cab, she glances out of the window, waits for the city’s skyline, finds, as she always does, the approximate spot where she went for her PhD, the other spot where she, a year ago, started her curatorial fellowship at the Met’s Egyptian Art Department. She has always had a soft spot for the Empire State Building with its concrete walls, square and heavy, like the temples of the Pharaohs, but she has fallen for One World Trade Center, too, for its facets of alternating triangles which, again, seem to her like glorious, modern pyramids. She loves that building, but it’s a guilt-ridden love that she hardly allows herself because she feels that this site should evoke nothing but sorrow. She looks away.

  The cab crosses the Greenpoint Avenue Bridge before dropping her off in front of the four-story apartment building where she and Mark have lived for five years. Entering, she is careful not to make too much noise lest Mrs. Kumiega, her landlady, hear her and step out to chat. Mrs. Kumiega lives on the first floor, and Rose, rather than roll her suitcase into the building, lifts it up, hauls it to the second floor, and opens her apartment’s door, and closes it with the softest click.

  The apartment looks the same but feels different. Rose knows that nothing physically changed, but she cannot shake off a feeling of foreignness, as if the universe she is now stepping back into were a cleverly forged copy of the one she walked out of when she left for Egypt just over a week ago. She suspects it’s the jet lag, the effect of lack of sleep on her eyes, perhaps. Somehow, the colors have changed. The sun shining through the windows of the kitchen, open to the living room, is bright but cold, making the edges of the cabinets and the glass-top breakfast table glisten. The bookcases lining the walls seem more cluttered than she remembers. When she and Mark first moved in, she decided to take the right-hand side of the bookcase, he the left-hand side. They called it their East-meets-West arrangement, a visual representation of their marriage, where her books on Egyptology, archaeology, and literature slowly blended into his books on politics and foreign affairs. The middle bay, originally featuring souvenirs of their various travels—a handmade urn from Spain; a wood carving of a cedar tree that Mark picked up in Lebanon; some figurines in the pharaonic style from Egypt; rocks from their hikes in West Virginia; a framed photo of them on the New River Gorge Bridge—has, over the years, started filling up with their books, and was now a mangle of mismatched volumes, an ambiguous territory. Rose walks up to the bookcase and runs her fingers on the edge of the books sitting on the shelves. She inhales, taking in the midday calm, the dust particles illuminated by sunrays. She is home—she knows she is home—and yet she feels out of place. Alien.

  She takes Gameela’s things out of the suitcase, finds a plastic bin to put them in, then walks into her bedroom where she shoves it in the closet, hiding it under a pile of sweaters. Then, dissatisfied, she pulls it out again and pushes it under the bed, concealing it behind her rolled-up yoga mat. She is exhausted but cannot fall asleep without showering first, and when she finally walks out of the shower, her hair dripping and in her underwear, she slips between the covers, pulling an eye mask over her eyes to shut out the light seeping in through the blinds. She has not called Mark, she realizes, but she is too tired to do it now. Within minutes, she has drifted away, dreaming that everywhere she goes, the walls are covered in pharaonic reliefs, images of people in profile, among them, of course, Gameela.

  * * *

  —

  SHE WAKES UP TO a knock on the door. Opening her eyes, she is disoriented again and glances around her. The clock by her bed says it’s past four in the afternoon. The knocking persists, soft but determined. She gets up, fishes for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and wobbles to the front door.

  “You’re back!” Mrs. Kumiega’s smile spreads from ear to ear. Rose looks at the Tupperware box in her landlady’s hands and smiles.

  “Hey, Mrs. Kumiega. I missed you.” Her voice is thick and sleepy. She clears her throat.

  “I woke you up?” The statement a question; Mrs. Kumiega’s eyes wide in concern.

  Rose shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I overslept. I should have been up hours ago. Please, come in.”

  “No, I’m not coming in. I know you’re tired. But I brought you food.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kumiega. You’re an angel.”

  They linger. Rose accepts the box her landlady hands her with one hand and holds the door open with the other. Mrs. Kumiega is short and stout, her hair a dusty blond forming a compact, curly halo around her head, and Rose, just over five feet tall and quite a few pounds heavier than she would like to be, feels she is looking at an older, whiter version of herself.

  “Your parents are okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister, Rose. I’m very sorry.”

  Her landlady reaches one hand and touches her forearm. Rose nods. Her eyes are starting to water on cue. She is too self-aware to wipe her tears, so she tries to blink them away.

  “Thank you for the food, Mrs. Kumiega. I’m quite hungry. I think I’ll have some right away.”

  “Yes. Do that.” Mrs. Kumiega’s eyes shine with excitement. “I made you some golabki but I didn’t use pork, just beef. It will be good for you. Make you stronger.” She pumps her fists in the air, signaling the impending strength the meal will invoke. Rose looks at the cabbage rolls and nods. She wants to tell Mrs. Kumiega of the very similar Egyptian dish, different only in being a bit smaller and having more rice and less meat in the stuffing, but she remembers how much Gameela loved this dish and decides to say nothing. When Mrs. Kumiega leaves, Rose walks up to the kitchen and puts the Tupperware in the fridge for Mark.

  * * *

  —

  ROSE CHECKS HER PHONE for messages from Mark, finds several as well as two missed calls. She texts him back.

  Sorry. Was asleep and had the phone on silent. When will you be home?

  Immediately, he replies.

  Trying to get out of here as soon as possible. Have to finish editing an article for online publication tonight then will go. Probably need another hour.

  She looks at the clock, estimates that she has close to two hours. She heads to the bedroom and pulls out the bin, lifts it up to her bed, and sits down next to it.

  Carefully, she pulls the items out one by one and sorts them into stacks, divided by category: photos, documents, books, clothing, jewelry, miscellaneous. The items cover up half the surface of her bed. When she is done sorting them out, she walks over to the kitchen for Ziploc bags and a marker, then returns and puts the smaller items into bags and label
s them with the location she found them in and a serial number. Rose’s desk stands in the corner of her bedroom, and from there she grabs a notebook and starts labeling the pages, each with a number corresponding to a bag, and jotting down notes: That’s the necklace she bought at Khan El-Khalili that time we went there in high school. This stack of photos is probably work related: construction sites, dug up trenches, and freshly poured cement. That stack is personal, probably with friends or colleagues, a few at the offices of the construction company, a few at a restaurant (where?). As she writes, she becomes increasingly aware of the triviality of some of the items she picked out: A pink T-shirt with “All you need is love” stamped on it in black cursive font. What did she think such an item will tell her? She picks the T-shirt up, lifts it to her nose, and sniffs it—it smells of laundry detergent, soft but impersonal. She puts it back on the bed. A couple of the items are her own and thus further complicate the sorting: her old, frayed book on ancient Egypt, the one she bought as a child and has kept because it marked the beginning of her fascination with this subject; the necklace with the turquoise stone; a photo album with snapshots of a high school trip to Upper Egypt. She puts the necklace on but leaves the book and photo album with Gameela’s things. Her sorting system is already flawed, marred by cross contamination, but she still goes through with her work, the monotony of jotting down and labeling soothing. Whenever she is done with an item, she returns it to the plastic bin—larger items on the bottom, smaller ones on top, everything in its place.

  * * *

  —

  ROSE IS HALFWAY through unpacking when Mark arrives. She hears him open the door, hears his muffled footsteps on the carpet, but does not stop. Her suitcase is on the floor in their bedroom; Gameela’s things are tucked under the bed again.

  “Hey.” Mark walks over and hugs her. She averts her eyes until the last minute, when he is standing right next to her, then she looks up and makes herself smile.

  “I missed you,” he says.

  She lets him hug her and says nothing.

  “How was your flight back?”

  “Okay. Hate the delays, but otherwise fine.”

  He sits on the bed. She is aware of his eyes as she picks up her pajamas and puts them in the laundry bin, as she plugs the phone’s charging cord back into the wall by her bedside table, as she pulls a pair of shoes out of the plastic bag she had packed them in and puts them on the shoe rack in the closet.

  “How are your parents holding up?”

  “As well as you’d expect.” She pulls a couple of T-shirts out of the suitcase, can’t remember whether they are washed or soiled, and tosses them in the laundry bin just in case.

  “I’m glad you got to spend time with them. I’m sure you all needed it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing new here. Ingrid called to check on me, which was nice. She and Ted wanted to take me out for dinner, but I said I’d rather wait till you’re back so that we can all go out together.”

  Rose nods.

  “She asked when you’d be back at work. I told her probably as soon as you arrive,” he laughs a soft, low laugh.

  “Yes. I’m going back tomorrow.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She glances at him and sees him sitting with his head bent down, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He is trying to make small talk, which is entirely out of character, and Rose almost feels sorry for him, starts to take a step his way, considers giving him a hug, but then she remembers her mother, sitting out on the balcony, fingers laced on her stomach, head thrown back, silent, all delicate joints and skinny limbs, and her sympathy for her mother floods over any sympathy she might feel for her husband. She remains in place.

  She looks back at her opened suitcase, checks pockets for forgotten items, but the suitcase is empty now. She doesn’t know what to do next. Finally, she zips it closed and tries to slide it under the bed, careful not to disturb her bin. The suitcase’s top gets caught on the sideboard.

  “Let me help you.” Mark gets up.

  “No. I’ve got it.” She gives the suitcase a final shove and it slides in so suddenly that Rose hits her face nose-first on the bed’s wooden sideboard.

  “Ouch!” she yelps.

  She leans back and holds her nose, which stings with a sharp pain that strangely comforts her. She doesn’t try to hold her tears back.

  “Let me look.” Mark is sitting on the floor next to her, trying to pry her hand open.

  “I’m fine,” she lies.

  “Just let me see.”

  “I said I was fine, Mark!”

  She jumps up and heads to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. In the mirror, she sees that her eyes are shot red, her nose is equally red and bleeding. She runs the water and splashes her face, notices her hands trembling, and holds them under the water, examining them, marveling at the tiny tremors. Her hands will not stop shaking. She looks back up at her nose, still dripping blood, then at the dots of blood as they turn the water in the sink a variegated pink.

  “Rose. Open the door, honey. Let me look at you.”

  She tilts her head back, pinches her nose, waits. On the other side of the door, she can feel her husband waiting, too. When she finally walks out, Mark holds her face in both hands, and she lets him do it. He seems so concerned for her safety that she is afraid she’ll start crying again. His fingers are probing her face, gently pressing on her nose. Just two weeks ago, she would have found this funny. Endearing. She would have joked with him about it. Now she cannot joke, but she still caves under his touch. She reminds herself of how angry she is with him, but her mind seems indifferent. All she can think of is her husband’s fingers touching her face.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I think you broke your nose.”

  “No, I didn’t. It always bleeds when I hit it. You know that.” She wiggles free and walks away from him.

  “Let me take you to the ER to check it out anyway.”

  “No.” She walks up to the fridge, pulls the Tupperware box with the cabbage rolls out. “Mrs. Kumiega made us some golabki.”

  For a moment, she is disoriented again, the mixture of the English she speaks, the Polish names thrown in, and the Arabic words in her head dizzying. She stands in place, the Tupperware in her hands, and it takes her a second to remember what she was doing. Carefully, she picks the cabbage rolls up, one by one, and places them in a casserole before pouring the sauce on top of them, covering the dish with foil, and putting it in the oven. The glass door shows the reflection of her husband standing behind her, his hands on his hips. His reflection is looking her in the eyes, mirrored in the oven’s door, but she doesn’t turn around.

  THE NATIONAL CONTRACTORS

  Notice of Approval of Resignation

  29 March 2016

  Engineer/Gameela Gubran

  Greetings,

  In response to your request dated 22 March 2016, in which you ask to resign your post, we would like to inform you that the general manager, Engineer Ahmed Elmasry, has decided to grant your request for resignation starting the date of this notice. Please arrange with the director of your division, Engineer Samy Bayoumi, to issue an official severance form and a record of receipt of all the company’s belongings that are in your possession.

  We would like to extend our deepest thanks to you for your efforts throughout your employment time with The National Contractors.

  With our best wishes for continued success.

  Respectfully,

  Maha Elattar

  Employee Affairs

  cc: Accounting; Social Security

  ◆ 3 ◆

  The room Rose works in at the Met is saturated with odors of old wood and dry stone, which she believes is exactly how time smells. When she walks in, she doesn’t take her jacket off. She knows the room is
colder than most of the other sections of the museum, and she dislikes the cold, the way it pinches at her skin and makes her hands flake. Whenever she can, she keeps her hands tucked inside her pockets, warm against the fleece lining.

  Dr. Winkenstein, one of the curators at the museum, is Rose’s supervisor. She has been granted a postdoctoral fellowship so that she can assist him in preparing for a new exhibit on ancient Egypt, set to be launched in two years. Rose, sitting at her desk in the center of the room, looks at a sticky note she has tacked to her computer screen: The Daily Life of Ancient Egyptians. The exhibit is to focus on regular people, not on the Pharaohs who could afford to build monuments and commission sculptures to immortalize them. Rose’s job is to help pick out artifacts that, when brought together, can depict the lives of the poor, silent masses, the ones who were not mummified and buried with golden slippers and gilded furniture, but who quietly slipped out of life leaving everyday artifacts behind: clay pots, folding stools, amulets on leather strings. This, she knows, is what inspired her to collect Gameela’s things.