“Ms. Edelstein?” she says, and I blink, until I realize she is talking to me.
A million years ago, I had been Dawn McDowell. I’d published under that name. But my passport and license read Edelstein. Like Brian’s.
In her hand she has a checklist of crash survivors.
She puts a tick next to my name. “Have you been seen by a doctor?”
“Not yet.” I glance back at the examination room.
“Okay. I’m sure you have some questions…?”
That’s an understatement.
Why am I alive, when others aren’t?
Why did I book this particular flight?
What if I’d been detained checking in, and had missed it?
What if I’d made any of a thousand other choices that would have led me far away from this crash?
At that, I think of Brian, and his theory of the multiverse. Somewhere, in a parallel timeline, there is another me at my own funeral.
At the same time, I think—again, always—of Wyatt.
I have to get out of here.
I don’t realize I have said this out loud until the airline representative responds.
“Once we get the doctor’s paperwork, you’re clear to leave. Is someone coming for you, or do you need us to make travel arrangements?”
We, the lucky ones, have been told we can have a plane ticket anywhere we need to go—to our destination, back to where the flight originated, even somewhere else, if necessary. I have already called my husband. Brian offered to come get me, but I told him not to. I didn’t say why.
I clear my throat. “I have to book a flight,” I say.
“Absolutely.” The woman nods. “Where do you need to go?”
Boston, I think. Home. But there’s something about the way she phrases the question: need, instead of want; and another destination rises like steam in my mind.
I open my mouth, and I answer.
I have heard these songs that are in ancient tombs,
What they say about aggrandizing the one on earth,
And diminishing the necropolis.
But why is such done against the land of eternity,
A just and righteous place without fear?
Mayhem is its very abomination!
No one there dreads another.
This land, without an opponent,
Is where all of our families rest
Since the beginning of time.
Those who will be born after millions and millions,
All shall go to it!
—From the Tomb of Neferhotep, as translated by Professors Colleen and John Darnell
MY MOTHER, WHO lived and died by superstitions, used to make us say together before we went on a trip: We’re not going anywhere. It was meant to trick the Devil. I can’t say I believe in that kind of thing, but then again, I didn’t say it before I left home, and look at where that got me.
Walking outside of the airport in Cairo in August feels like stepping onto the surface of the sun. Even late at night, the heat is a knife on your skin and comes in pressing waves. I can already feel a line of sweat running down my spine; I didn’t come prepared for this. I find myself in the middle of other people’s transitions: a rumpled, dazed group of tourists being herded into their minivan; a teen dragging duct-taped luggage from the back of an open cart to the curb; a woman securing her head scarf as it blows in the breeze.
Suddenly I am surrounded by men. “Taxi?” they bark. “You need taxi?”
There’s no hiding the fact that I’m a Westerner; it’s clear from my red hair to my cargo pants and sneakers. I nod, making eye contact with one of them, a driver with a thick mustache and a long-sleeved striped shirt. The other taxi drivers fall back, seagulls in search of another crumb.
“You have suitcase?”
I shake my head. Everything I have is in the small bag I carry over my shoulder.
“American?” the man replies, and I nod. A wide, white grin splits his face. “Welcome to Alaska!”
It is startling to think that fifteen years have passed, but that lame joke is still the go-to gag for visitors. I get into the backseat of his car. “Take me to Ramses train station,” I say. “How long?”
“Fifteen minutes, inshallah.”
“Shokran,” I reply. Thank you. I am stunned at how quickly the Arabic comes to my lips. There must be a space in the brain that stores the information you assumed you’d never need again, like the lyrics to “MacArthur Park,” or how to multiply matrices, or—in my case—anything Egyptian. When Meret was little, she used to say lasterday, which might mean five minutes ago or five years ago—and that is where I am right now. Like I stepped back into the moment that was left behind when I abandoned this country. Like it has been waiting all this time for me to return.
With the window down, I can already feel dust settling on me. In Egypt, everything is covered in sand—your shoes, your skin, the air you breathe. It even gets in your food. The teeth of mummies are worn down by it.
Although it is nighttime, Cairo is alive in all its contradictions. On the highway, cars share the space with donkey carts.
Butcher shops with meat hanging outside cozy up beside souvenir stands. A souped-up muscle car zooms past, leaving a throb of rap music in its wake that tangles with the loudspeaker reverb of the salat isha, the nightly Muslim call to prayer. We drive along the Nile, trash stewing on its banks. Finally, Ramses Station comes into view. “Fifty pounds,” the driver says.
There are no set taxi fares in Egypt; the driver tells you how much he thinks the ride is worth. I pass him forty pounds as a counteroffer and get out of the car. He gets out, too, and starts yelling at me in Arabic. “Shokran,” I tell him. “Shokran.” Even though this scene is common and nobody bats an eye, I feel my pulse racing as I walk up to the train station.
It is not easy to get to Middle Egypt as a Westerner. Tourists are not supposed to use the trains, so I don’t buy a ticket and instead wait for the conductor to find me and play dumb. At that point, the train is already moving and it’s too late, so he shrugs and lets me pay. Hours later, when I get off at my stop, in Minya, I am the only white person in the station. I’m nearly the only person in the station.
I was supposed to arrive at 2:45 A.M., but the train has been delayed, so it’s just after 4:00 A.M. It feels like I have been traveling for twenty-four hours straight. The only taxi driver at the Minya train station is playing a game on his mobile phone when I knock on his window. He takes one look at me, rumpled and dragging. “Sabah el-khier,” I say. Good morning.