How to Live Forever, According to My Grandmother

I must not have snored. Unkicked and bruiseless, I woke up to the muffled sound of Mazen singing an old Fairuz song in the shower. His side of the bed looked hardly slept in, not unusual for him. When we were children, he barely moved once he shut his eyes, waking up full of cheer and energy each morning, his pajamas adding not a single crease during the night. It didn’t seem that much had changed with him. I, on the other hand, had slept in a T-shirt and underwear for the first time in decades.

I got out of bed as soon as I heard the water turn off. I needed to use the bathroom.

“Out, out,” I said, while banging on the door.

I had promised to meet Emma at the Kara Tepe medical tent that morning. We had to make sure Sumaiya was getting the care she needed and to prepare the family for what was to happen once she passed away.

As we parted to drive to our separate hotels the night before, I asked you to join us for lunch. You declined; our port adventure was enough for you. I insisted, and you attempted a couple of your numerous bad excuses. You couldn’t, you could already feel the headache that would develop the next day, some funny excuses, all not believable. Then Mazen said that if you did not promise to come, he would handcuff himself to you. Rasheed insisted that you had no choice. I should tell you that they were both worried. After you drove off, Mazen said we shouldn’t let you spend too much time on your own. He didn’t think you were suicidal; no, he compared you to a grieving widower, and you know the Lebanese wouldn’t allow a griever to be alone till enough healing time had passed. You had to join us.

Mazen came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his privates and another around his head. He blocked my way in for a moment, looking a bit too pleased with himself.

“I remembered I have to show you something before we leave,” he said as he strolled past me. He removed the bath towel around his head with a ta-da flourish, as if he had a white rabbit under it. “Well, make you listen to something. You’ll love it.” He would tell me only after I showered and dressed, since the surprise was supposed to knock my socks off.

He had me sit next to him when I was done, his laptop before us on the only table in the room, what passed for a desk and dinette in one.

“About seven years ago, I drove to our mother’s village in Syria,” he said, “which turned out to be great timing because much of where I visited is gone now. I got to see Aleppo before much of it was leveled. But the idea of the trip was to visit our grandmother before she died and to see where we came from. Our mother was driving me crazy at the time, and I needed a break. I thought I would visit the one woman who drove her crazy. Our mother loathed hers, you know that. I was able to spend a day with our grandmother, and it explained a lot. I could see from whom our mother inherited her craziness. And, you know, you.”

I punched his shoulder, not too hard but not soft either.

“She did remind me of you a little,” he said, “except that you’re only half insane. I thought at first it was some kind of dementia, but no, her crazy was her every day. She loved to lecture and berate, roamed her old house at night scolding mirrors for hours. I arrived, fresh ears, and she began to give me advice. I had an idea. I asked if I could record her because I needed to remember her guidance. Do you want to hear your grandmother talk?”

As if I had a choice. He clicked the Play icon on his computer, and this craggy, hoarse voice began to speak, an old Syrian dialect, strong and clear, enunciating every word.

You don’t reach eighty years of age without being right, and I’m ninety-nine, our grandmother said from the laptop’s tiny speakers, from the beyond. So I’ve been right for a long time. Don’t argue with me. I’m telling you this: each human, every single one of us, is born with a predetermined number of heartbeats. There is nothing anyone can do to change how many times your heart will tick. God, in all his glory, has already assigned you a specific number. You might die of old age or of being kicked in the head by a donkey. Doesn’t matter. Cancer, car accident? The number of beats was already written on a piece of paper stored in God’s lockbox. Each of us will find her own way to die when the beats have run out.

It is written. We grew up with this saying, that everything has already been written by God or Fate or what have you. Destiny was set, and one lived best by aligning oneself with what was written.

The secret is to make sure the heartbeats last for the longest possible time. If you ask me, exercise is the stupidest thing ever invented. Why would you want to waste heartbeats on purpose? All those runners, the swimmers, the football players, they will all die.

Her voice sounded pure, had the strength and fluidity of certainty. It would have been difficult to guess she was ninety-nine had she not stated it.

Any work that has to be done can and should be done slowly. Think tortoise. It lives to one hundred and fifty years because it is smarter than humans. Do your work deliberately and unhurriedly, whether it’s around the house or to earn a living. Relax. Don’t ever walk fast. Be methodical. Keep your heart rate slow.

And never get angry. It’s not worth it. Even though I was married to the stupidest man in history, I never lost my temper. How stupid was my husband? Well, let me tell you. He was the only one who immigrated to Brazil, the land of untold riches, in order to make money, only to return two years later having lost everything.

I don’t approve of movement in principle. It increases your heart rate. When I married, I moved into my husband’s house and never left it. I didn’t spend a single night in any bed but mine. I didn’t travel. I stayed home when my husband sailed to Brazil. He was supposed to call for me when he settled in the New World, but he never did. He wouldn’t have known how to settle without me. I’m not even sure he’d have known how to call. I told him that, but he didn’t know how to listen. He had dreams, my poor, stupid husband, but they didn’t last long, and he didn’t either. I’ve been a widow for over fifty years. He was angry all the time, and he smoked a lot, which also increases your heart rate. He was handsome when he was young, so that helped.

Your mother wasn’t smart either, but did I let her upset me? Of course not. And she was never satisfied. She wanted to see the world, to become someone of consequence. As if that was what’s important. She wanted to travel.

Travel? No, of course I had no interest in travel. I visited the city only twice, both times with my husband, and let me tell you, I was not happy. Too many people, too many everything. It was not good for my heart rate.

No, I did not wander the world. I wandered sitting still.

It might have been a good thing she died before this last war began.

I told you I don’t like movement. I was born for a sedentary life. I cooked, I cleaned the house, everything carefully. I worked my root garden. I loved my grandchildren. Most of all I loved my embroidery. I loved my needles and my threads more than I loved anyone.

If you ask anybody within twenty villages who has the best threads of all, they’ll tell you it’s me, even to this day. I could do all manner of embroidery, no one was better. My pieces were sought after. Lucky was the bride who received a wedding shawl from me.

In the early days, when I was newly married, I bought my threads from a peddler who arrived in the village on a mule-drawn carriage. He would save his threads for me. Silk threads of the brightest yellow from China for you, he would tell me. This blue is from Italy, this earth red from Morocco, only for you. Look, this green wool yarn came to me all the way from Germany, he would say. It matches your eyes. Come with me, he would say. Let me take you away. Ride with me, you can sleep where you will, walk out when you want, you can choose your bread, your dress, your company. He wanted me to fly with him, to taste a life beyond my life. He said his mule had seen more of the world than I had.

The peddler was stupider than my husband, who brought me back beautiful woolen threads from Brazil, bless his heart.

I did not need to go with him to see the world. I sat in my comfortable chair, the canvas on my lap, the needle leading a thread, each entry point a heartbeat. Delay and delay each cross-stitch, delay and delay each heartbeat, and suddenly I’m above yellow China. I soar over azure Italy. Is this Morocco’s red I see before me?

No, I did not walk the world. I flew above it, and I soared.

Don’t contradict me. I told you I’m always right. Don’t argue with me. Of course I flew on my threads. Why would you believe that a woman could fly on a broom but not on threads, why?

I’m ninety-nine, and I can still thread a needle by candlelight.