takes her glasses off to rub her eyes. “And that’s with at least three weeks’ notice. No one can pull off an entire ceiling in three days, sorry to tell you.”
I swing my backpack to the front and take the car keys out of it. “Thanks so much.”
But Dawud doesn’t budge. “What if I help? To make it?”
Hope breaks out into a grin, then gives a full-bodied laugh. “You must really love the bride and groom!”
“No, I just really, really want a flower ceiling,” he says solemnly, clutching the clipboard to himself.
“Sorry, dear, I can’t teach you how to be a florist’s assistant in a couple of days.” She continues laughing while tidying up wisps of ribbons and snips of stems on the counter.
“Dawud, I gotta go meet my mom. Let’s go!” I hiss as nicely as I can. “Thanks, Ms. Ravson!”
I head to the door and then, seeing Dawud still standing motionless, push it wide open and go right out. Maybe if he thinks I’m driving away, he’ll start moving.
I’m in the car with the engine running when Dawud runs to the back door and opens it. “She said I can have all the leftover flower and leaf cuttings from all her other orders. So we can make our OWN ceiling.”
“Oh no,” I say. “No, Dawud. I’m so not doing it.”
He just writes something on his clipboard, and I see the beginnings of Sarah in him again.
But he is so not going to boss me around.
* * *
Since we arrive at the hotel early, Dawud and I wait in the lobby for Mom.
It’s a lush lobby meant to mimic nature in a very unorganized way, so there are tons of large plants, fake and real, as well as seating made to look like it was hewn from white birch tree trunks. In the dead center, right before you get to the elevators, there’s a tree that almost reaches the high ceiling, obviously fake, its branches sprouting big fluffy balls of red cotton amid the dark green leaves. I don’t know what that’s about, unless it links with the name of the hotel, the Orchard.
I’m scrolling through Instagram—Tats posted a picture of her prewedding look—when I see Mom enter through the automated double doors, wheeling a large suitcase behind her.
I jump and practically run over to hug her.
She looks so good, her smile, her eyes, her entire face. Like she’s rested—and like I’ve missed seeing her for almost three weeks. We texted and talked on the phone every day, but nothing beats being back in her presence.
“How are you, sweetums?” She strokes my face and kisses a cheek before ruffling in the pocket of her thin windbreaker to find and hold out a pack of halal gummy bears. The quality, imported-from-a-Muslim-country kind.
I seize it and am about to rip it open when I remember that I’ll be seeing Nuah tomorrow. Insha’Allah.
He appreciates real gummy bears.
I pocket the pack and give Mom another hug before following her to the front desk.
She has on a white sporty pull-on hijab, the kind she wears when she’s doing a long drive, and, under her light pink jacket, black track pants and an old gray T-shirt with faded words, I DID 10K FOR ALZHEIMER’S.
I’m kind of surprised she’s so slouchy-looking, as she’s really into being presentable. Not fashionable, but neat and ironed.
The opposite of me, in fact. Except for tomorrow, at the henna party, and at the wedding itself, when I’ll be in two of my favorite outfits ever. Mom and I spent a lot of time finding fancy clothes I actually liked.
“You brought my clothes, right?” I ask as she waits for the hotel personnel to activate her room key.
Mom turns to me and nods and then squints at something beyond me. “Isn’t that Sarah’s brother?”
Dawud is coming out of the hotel shop cradling six Gatorades in his arms. He spots us and bounds over while trying to balance the drinks. “These were almost thirty dollars!”
“What! WHY DID YOU BUY THEM HERE?” I’m incredulous. “That’s so irresponsible! I was going to stop at the grocery store! Where the whole thing would have been ten dollars at the most!”
Mom looks at me with her eyebrows raised, the edges of her mouth moving up slightly, before nodding, proud-like.
Wait, did she just give me a mom-to-mom-approval look?
I turn back to Dawud, who’s trying to push his glasses up while holding on to the Gatorade. I poke his glasses onto the bridge of his nose so I won’t