And just like that, we crossed the planet. Somewhere over the Atlantic, we touched.
“I have a son?”
“You have a son.”
In a moment, shorter than a Planck, infinite, bursting with light. It swells, shimmering, filling every atom of space. And nothing else matters. All of it dissolves. Passports and CANCELED – BOS, planes and windowless rooms and little bits of boarding passes. Form I-275 and executive orders. Flimsy, vaporous documents. They blow away in glittering particles.
“My God, Sama. I, bhebbik.”
I forget the words in English too.
“Bhebbak.”
Bhebbik, you say again and again, like music notes beating in perfect cadence, certain like coming home. Like a heartbeat, like you are beating yours to me.
“Bhebbak,” I tell you, beating my own across the planet and time, over walls and oceans. I don’t know where they touch, but they do.
“Describe him to me?”
“I couldn’t see him well in the incubator.”
“It doesn’t matter, Sama.”
You’re right. It doesn’t. All right then, we take off, the three of us. I describe lashes that curl like petals. A nose, like yours. Ten fingers, almost impossibly fine. Ten toes. You ask for more, blind and starved. I describe almond eyes, the color of the sky at noon in July. On cheeks, freckled constellations. A dimple, same side as mine.
I describe the most beautiful baby. I tell us a story. I stretch it like sky from Boston to Amman. We both leap for it, hanging on, to the phone, to the words, as unconcerned with their truth as with gravity and the laws of men and nature. Reality and its ugly abysses and walls. I close my eyes and they cannot enter. Only light does. And in the space behind my eyelids, only the present: dabs of whites, blues, infinite blues, powder pinks and pastel greens.
I open my eyes and land us all safely. You, me, and Naseem. The birth certificate form is by the bed and pink.
“Will you fill out the birth certificate with me?”
The sound waves quiver in my ear. Babas shouldn’t cry. Rather, when they do, the spinning earth should stop.
Ballpoint pen. First question:
“Child’s full name: Naseem Deeb.”
I wait for you to confirm. An exhale reaches me.
“It’s perfect. It’s…”
Air. Freedom. Our son’s name is our dream. The greatest accomplishment of our lives. Naseem Deeb, American. Naseem Deeb, who will never be stopped by Customs and Border Protection.
“Mother’s name, father’s name, date and place of birth.”
Naseem, son of Sama and Hadi, born on the twenty-eighth of January, in Boston, Massachusetts. Free to go wherever he wants, beyond all seas, all frontiers, all countries, be whoever he wants to be. Nothing and no one will trap Naseem.
In blue ink, I make the first indelible marks of the infinite that will draw him. I can already see, just as indelibly, that dazzling mosaic. Our son will have a deep-blue passport with a proud golden eagle. Naseem will have the life we came here for. I sign the form and date it.
For a moment, we stay there, in that swelling, shimmering space, then I ask:
“What do we do now, Hadi?”
I hear, almost feel, the exhale, warm and soft and long on my cheek. Take your time. I will wait. Here, with Naseem, on the other side of the world, vast and beautiful, we’ll be here…
“All right, Sama, here’s what we’re going to do: Tomorrow, I’ll call the embassy. Better yet, I’ll just go there.”
“Do you think they can help?”
“I have no idea, we’ll see. There must be something they can do. I’ll keep pestering them till they do.”
“How long is your Jordanian visa valid?”
“A month. I have a few weeks left.”
“You’ll be back before then,” I say, to you and me, and we believe it, like the color of Naseem’s eyes.