Choosing the Best Lipstick Shade to Wear to the Hospital

Before Sumaiya would get into the ambulance, she had two major concerns. The first was who would watch over her daughters while she was away. Mazen offered to do it, but I wanted to bring him along with me. The tonsured man and his wife ended up the volunteer babysitters. The second concern was how Sumaiya was to go to a hospital when she looked grotesque. How indeed? She explained to Emma and me that she had not packed any makeup while preparing to flee for her life, an oversight. She rarely used much, but she preferred not to be seen by strangers without a good foundation. I felt almost certain then that she had encephalopathy due to high ammonia levels, and she was going to get worse, with progressive delirium. Emma extracted a tube of lipstick from the horn of Amalthea that was her pocket, but Sumaiya thought it too bold. The tonsured man’s wife was able to help, since she had remembered to pack some makeup while fleeing for her life. Not well packed, though, she said, it was damaged during the sea voyage. The powder was damp and lumpy, the lipstick verdigrised. Sumaiya was happy, I grateful.

Even though the ambulance did not have its siren turned on, I still had a lot of trouble following it. The pressure of being in the middle of a short caravan with Emma and the Swedish contingent in a car behind and the ambulance ahead strained my nerves. That would not have been as bad had I not made the mistake of turning on the GPS on my phone. The ambulance had different ideas than my mobile on how to get to the Mytilene hospital. Bugs Bunny sounded not too happy.

The ambulance would drop Sumaiya off at the emergency entrance of the hospital. Sammy and one Swedish physician were with her, whereas Emma and I, in different cars, would have to search for the hospital’s parking lot. She had mentioned that the one time she’d been to the hospital she had to drive in circles at least three times before she found it.

Without my having to say anything, Mazen turned on his phone and had his GPS direct us. He picked up my mobile from the cup holder and turned off Bugs Bunny.

“Your driving is astounding,” he said. “After all these years, you’re still able to handle a stick shift like a champion. Whoever taught you must have been a genius. He should be given a Nobel Prize in physics.”

At a stoplight, a middle-aged Greek woman crossed the street. She hunched in a gust of wind that tore at her ancient, patched cardigan. She looked Syrian, like a relative of ours. She glanced back at the ambulance, perhaps wondering why it didn’t turn on its sirens and run the red light.

“What happened back there?” I asked Mazen.

I wondered whether this was the right time to talk about his apoplectic tantrum since I wasn’t sure I’d be a good listener, what with being on edge behind the ambulance. Yet he and I were alone in a car at a stoplight. In a way, the red light made it seem appropriate.

“I got angry,” he said.

We looked at each other askance, which was our way of telling each other: That was the worst joke ever or Are you kidding me?

“I’d say I was surprised you weren’t angry,” he said.

“Oh, I was. Only I didn’t end up screaming. I haven’t seen you this upset before. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you angry, for crying out loud.”

“Well, I stopped smoking,” he said. “It’s nicotine withdrawal.”

“You stopped smoking eight years ago,” I said.

“I’m still suffering. You don’t know what it’s like.”

I lifted my hand off the steering wheel as if to slap him.

“Okay,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten so angry, but I couldn’t help it. I loathe these Westerners who have fucked us over and over for years and then sit back and wonder aloud why we can’t be reasonable and behave like they do with their noses up in the air as if they’re smelling shit. I hate their adulation of their own imaginary virtues. She actually said they don’t love their daughters with an upper-class English accent. May Satan tie her forked tongue for eternity. Maybe I was furious because I miss my daughter immensely. Ever since she moved to Dubai, I hardly ever see her. Maybe it was because I want to kill my daughter since she refuses to give me a bushel of grandchildren, goddammit. I’ve been good. I deserve grandkids. Maybe I raged and you didn’t because I’m not as used to those assholes. Maybe because I wanted a cigarette. Maybe I went ballistic because I should have. What’s the word you used to describe your rage all those years ago?”

“Righteous,” I said.

A housefly buzzed out of nowhere and landed on the inside of the windshield, bulbous iridescent body, gold-skeined wings; a prisoner in the car, she rubbed her hands in consternation or in glee. The swiftness with which Mazen caught the fly still impressed me after all these years. He shook his fist and held it before me to blow on for good luck. With the usual panache, he threw the dazed insect onto the dashboard.

“Yeah,” he said, looking ahead, into the distance. “Maybe it was righteous.”