…his campaign speech, he called for a total and complete shutdown, saying, ‘We can’t allow people coming into this country who have this hatred of the United States’…”
“Sama!” Hadi called, shouting over the television. They had a television now, and a wall to hang it on. “Your tea is getting cold!”
He knocked on the door, and found her on the blue tiles, hugging the toilet bowl.
He sank down next to her and held her hair. She was, profusely, sick again.
Outside, “… they have this great hatred of Americans!”
“The cannoli were a mistake,” she managed, just, and had to hurl again.
A few seconds later, between shallow breaths, mortified by the scene before them, she said, “I’m so sorry, Hadi. I’m sorry I made you go out and get them. No more cannoli for the pregnant lady.”
He pushed the hair off her damp forehead and said solemnly, “You can have all the cannoli in the North End. Just maybe not for breakfast.”
She gave him a pale smile. He pulled her up, steadying her until the heartburn passed and the swaying floor under her feet solidified. She felt disgusting, she said. She looked incandescent, he thought. They walked out, his arm around her waist. Protests on the screen. Too loud. He muted the screaming faces but kept the TV on. She made more tea while he read the headlines streaming in bold red letters across the bottom of the screen.
“Is it Syria?” she asked as she sat down, then gasped. Immediately Hadi turned the TV off.
She had already seen. The long, snaking line of men, boys, some with zombie faces, on the black, white-lit tarmac, hands behind their backs… disappeared into a black screen. She burst into tears.
“Sama! Hayati! Don’t cry!”
“They all look like you…”
Hadi sighed. His face was dark. “This guy wants to deport half the people in this country as soon as he’s sworn in…”
She went paler than post-cannoli, and he spoke quickly: “Not us, Samati. Not us.”