Tangerine

Her grandmother warned her not to fall into the trap. She didn’t say what it looked like, or when or how one might typically encounter it. She used the article “the,” not “a,” as if there was only one trap to fall into, and everyone must look out for it at all times.

She does not remember the exact sentence her grandmother used. In her head, it was a one-word sentence, although she is certain her grandmother couldn’t have uttered the word “trap” on its own. It must have been part of something like “beware of the trap,” but she can only recall the Arabic word her grandmother chose to use for “trap”: el-tahelké. A floating, singular word, like a tangerine hanging from the ceiling. 

He gave her a Band-Aid to cover the childish scratch now stamped on her knee, like the ephemeral tattoo her mother once tried to convince her to get instead of a real one. She pulled up a chair facing his desk, crossed her legs—placing the injured knee over the other, slightly bent forward—crossed her arms, and opened her mouth. 

A verbal diarrhea. Was he even listening to her? He could either focus on her rambling or edit the articles, and judging by the quality of the writing in the next day’s print, he wasn’t listening.

She said: “Would you believe me if I told you that my only wish is to go back to the beginning of things? To when I was fifteen years old. I wasn’t particularly aware of anything that happened to me before that, so it doesn’t matter. I just wish I could go back to my first conversation with Isabel on MSN Messenger.

“I met her for the first time at a conference about the younger generation’s reading habits (or lack thereof) held by a bunch of old people. Very creative topic and not patronizing at all. I said something about TV shows not encouraging the youth to read. They actually took it into consideration and debated it for a while. At the end of the event, a young man with ginger curly hair and weird eyeglasses approached me and my two classmates, Jessica and Joanna. The school had elected us to attend the event because we were the only ones in our class of about ninety students who read books. Puts the whole theme of the conference into perspective, huh?” 

He laughed but didn’t lift his eyes from the screen or his fingertips from the keyboard. He went on. And she went on, too: “This guy was launching a weekly youth section in a local newspaper and wanted to see if we were interested in contributing. He wrote his phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Joanna. I took it from her and promised to give it back later. I never did, and she never asked. I sent him a long SMS to which he never replied. I didn’t want to call. Then I found him on Facebook, added him as a friend, and sent him my first article, which ended up in the newspaper. That’s how it all started.

“Then, on a whim, I added Isabel on Facebook, too, and we started talking. Our first conversation on MSN Messenger ended up being far too personal. She told me about Omar, her crush, and mentioned something about a local theater in her city, a melting white chocolate bar, and I talked to her about Daniel. We agreed that Omar and Daniel were similar. They probably had nothing in common except for toxic behavior.

“I don’t remember the first time Isabel and I met in real life or whether the meeting was awkward. I just know that she is my only connection to the beginning of things. She is the only person who was present in my life then and who remains now. This is why I like talking to her. Even sharing a bed with her was beautiful when I ran away to her city and spent the night at her place the evening before she got engaged. She later got divorced. 

“There were things we didn’t know about each other, things we didn’t tell each other, and things we’d make up just to throw the other off and shy away from further questions. At first, she told me she hadn’t had sex with Eugene. Later, when she admitted that they had, I didn’t ask why she had claimed otherwise. I didn’t know she had a third brother until she invited me to his wedding. We didn’t talk much on the telephone.

“Do you think it’s possible to start over without ever leaving? I told Isabel about the woman in the nail salon who had the word Beirut tattooed on her wrist, and the only thing Isabel said was: ‘That woman can never start over.’ Do you remember what Younes told me when I asked why he didn’t stay in Canada forever? He said the magnet here is still strong. It’s pulling him back.

“I always thought I’d remain light, carrying my house on my back like a turtle. But now there are too many things tying me to too many other things. Lately, my life keeps resurfacing, and I want to scrape it off, but it’s not salt on the surface of the salt pans.” 

He picked up a fresh pack of cigarettes from the pile on his desk, surrounded by papers and emptied packs. Holding the pack upside down, he patted it against the palm of his hand, like the bottom of a newborn baby reluctant to cry. One pat. Two pats. Then he tore off the transparent plastic wrap, squeezing it in his fist. When he finally opened his palm, the crumpled wrap unfolded one last time, like a crushed insect struggling to survive. He offered her a cigarette. She replied with a dismissive hand gesture. She wanted one but couldn’t bother to be interrupted, neither by his question nor by the puffs of smoke that would escape her own mouth.

She continued: “Every time I’m alone, my mind starts racing. So, what now? I can’t be alone? Have I been miserable my entire life without even realizing it? Twenty years? It can’t be. You can’t hide misery this long. But then, I know that sadness in my heart; it is neither new nor recent. It’s been sealed inside me for so long, it carries a musty scent, aged in my chest. A sadness that smells oldish like an abandoned house, a yellowed book, or, hmmm, like, bad fruit. Kind of moldy, you know?

“When I used to think about the possibility of losing my memory (it happened to our neighbor), I’d be scared. My memories were my most prized possession. But now they’re turning against me. When I’m sad, I catch myself tilting my head side to side, like silent old women at a funeral. It scares me. 

“Years ago, when I was still in high school, there were times when I felt unhappy. I only remembered this period recently, which tells me that this, right now, is not the first time. I don’t know what made me unhappy back then; I just remember feeling lonely. I was sad, but I’m not sure I cried. This followed the autumn I spent with Chris in our summer town. When we returned to the city, he had forgotten about me and stopped responding to my texts. I sent him a message saying: ‘You left me alone.’ He said I was exaggerating. My whole life, people have thought I was exaggerating. I wasn’t. 

“This is definitely not my first time. You know how I know this? When I was a kid, spending long summer days with my grandmother, I was sad too. I’d spend the entire day with her, and we never seemed to get along. Once, during a playdate, I struggled to open the cap of a plastic water bottle. Sometimes, they’re sealed for life! When I asked my grandmother to help, she said, ‘You don’t know how to do anything.’ Later that day, I went to my bedroom, shut the door behind me, and felt incredibly sad. I didn’t love her at that time. And then, I’d just heard about antidepressants, which were crudely referred to as ‘medications for the nerves.’ I remember thinking, if I went to a ‘doctor of the nerves’ and told him everything that had happened to me, he’d surely prescribe me some. I was so angry, but I never cried. Mind you, I was only eight, but I could have used some gummy bear Xanax.

“You know, earlier, when I tripped and fell on the stairs, I could’ve stood up right away. Besides the scratch on my knee, I wasn’t hurt. But I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to stay there, flat on the stairs, like slime smeared on the floor or dough dropped on a marble countertop, spreading out. Me, on the floor, was the only thing that made sense in a long time. I wanted to be physically in tune with how I felt. I didn’t want to get up.” 

He looked at her as though she had just entered the room. “What’s this nonsense? Not wanting to get up … You’re twenty. Let’s go get a drink.” Her knee wasn’t hurting anymore. She was walking to the rhythm of a soft pain stinging, and it wasn’t until years later that she realized she had always been in the trap. Born in the trap. Around her, the night was cold and lit by cheap neon signs. She finally fell silent. When she opened her mouth, all that escaped was condensed air, thick with the smell of moldy tangerines.