Night Vigil

I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t despondent enough. Half despondent means half hopeful. It means that you think about the possibilities you missed out on in life. How you could have been different, and in a different place. What if things weren’t the way they were? That “what if” opens the devil’s door. “What if” is ruthless.

I wandered through the rooms. Opened the fridge three times. Emptied a carton of chocolate milk into my belly. I stood in front of the window for a long time, looking at the cats getting ready to pounce on each other, at the streetlights, the sidewalks, and the few cars passing by. There is always life somewhere.

I remembered when I used to knock on the door of my parents’ room. Mama, I had a nightmare. Most likely I was lying. No nightmare, nothing of the kind. I wanted to sleep in the big bed. My mom was cheerful, as if she’d been waiting for me. She’d make a little space for me between her and my father. I’d stretch out between them, my mom holding my right hand and my father holding my left. Both of them slept on the side that was most comfortable for me, the side facing me. I’d grow sleepy in that little space of warmth. I’d rub my foot against my mom’s. I’d wrap my father’s arm around my stomach, my back to him. Slowly I’d fall asleep, ridiculously at peace, as if they would never leave. Things turned out a bit differently, I said to the reflection of my face in the window, a wry smile on my face. Who’s the most miserable one of all?

Maybe I should read until I get sleepy. Invent a substitute for that nighttime embrace, an antidote to the insomnia and nightmares. The nightmare was my reality and it was impossible to sleep. As if sleeping were waking, and waking the punishment. I was getting ready to go back down when I heard a laugh. Who was laughing now? Who could laugh at two in the morning, while everyone was asleep?

Wadha? Was Wadha laughing, having convinced everyone she had been in bed since nine? I went upstairs, on tiptoe, to her room. The door was half open. Why had she left it like that? Was it an oversight, overconfidence, or extreme caution? I pressed my back to the wall next to the door and listened. She was laughing! She was laughing on the phone, a laugh impossible to misinterpret, whose coyness had but one meaning. There was a scandalous femininity and overt desire in her hesitations. She whispered, implored, Come on now! Knock it off, or I swear I won’t indulge you again!

I was in my basement in a minute, shaking as if it were all my fault. This then was the nocturnal world of the perfect daughter? Everything else she did, her death-defying courage in pleasing and impressing Saqr, was to give herself—when everyone was asleep—suitable cover to laugh her sinful laugh in the late-night hours?

In the morning her mother asked her about the traces of fatigue on her face. Didn’t you get enough sleep? You were in bed at nine! Wadha touched her forehead wearily, lowered her eyes in great modesty, and like a devout worshipper who fears appearing to be seeking praise replied, “I was up last night praying.”