Bird Summons - Leila Aboulela Page 0,2

on him, he became less stiff and she felt settled too. With him was total belonging and peace. She didn’t want to leave, neither to take him back home nor to travel with Salma and Moni. She was happy like this, her lap full of his closeness, his smell, his sounds. She had given him a bath this morning, dressed him in his best clothes so that he would make a good impression. This was a special outing for him. The nursing home was a nice place and the nurses were kind. She would stay with him, why not? Yes, that was the best idea, she would help the nurses by looking after Adam while they concentrated on the other children. It would be a change for her, all the change she needed. Never mind about the trip to the Highlands.

From outside, the nursing home looked like any ordinary bungalow in a residential area, perhaps a little bigger, but it blended with its surroundings. Iman opened her door and undid her seat belt. The weather was pleasant, a late summer that was hitting its stride rather than giving in to the cold winds of autumn. ‘Moni will take for ever. The meat will thaw,’ she said. They were carrying frozen halal chicken and minced beef in the boot, knowing they would not find any in the shops near the loch.

‘No, it won’t,’ said Salma. ‘I wrapped it in aluminium foil.’ She strummed her fingers on the steering wheel, already thinking of how to utilise the time. Nip inside to use the toilet, check her phone for messages or chat to Iman? She reached into her bag and felt something square and hard. She pulled out a gift-wrapped box. There was a note attached to it from her husband, David. Happy Journey, my love.

She tore through the wrapping, tossing it on Iman’s lap, and gasped when she saw the new smartphone.

‘Ooh, you’re lucky,’ said Iman, starting to fold up the paper.

The screen was larger than Salma’s two-year-old one, the whole phone slimmer, its back a pure creamy white. She switched it on straight away, the button only needing the slightest touch, the lights flaring towards her in a swarm of colours.

‘He’s so sweet,’ she said, almost to herself. Last night, he had hugged her as she was packing her suitcase, pressed his palm against her lower stomach and she had felt pleased that it was flat (well, almost flat) even after four pregnancies, her pelvic floor muscles in excellent condition.

On the dashboard she placed her old phone and the new one next to each other and started the smart switch. She must phone him to say thank you. Once she put in her SIM card, he would be the first one she would call. She noted the time on the screen. ‘I’ll give Moni an extra ten minutes before I go in and get her.’

Iman said, ‘When I see what Moni goes through, when I see Adam, I’m glad I don’t have any children.’

‘You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it. Most children are healthy. Yours will be too, inshallah.’

Salma’s four children were burly and good at everything: school, sports, hobbies. She was often anxious that the evil eye would smite them. Perhaps it already had. Her quarrel with her daughter still blazed in her ears. Free to study what she wants, to turn down an offer to medical school, after all the private tutoring and the gruelling interview. To get that far then cop out for something easier. Sports science! ‘What would you become?’ Salma had reasoned with her. ‘A fitness trainer? That’s not much better than me!’ Ungrateful, lacking ambition. And David’s laissez-faire attitude towards this issue was infuriating too. Just thinking about the whole thing made her feel betrayed – the daughter she had fed through cracked nipples, taught how to belly dance, worked extra hours so that she could afford to give her the best of everything. But a girl backed by her father could not lose a fight. Salma instead was the one left smarting. Which was why this holiday was a good idea. She must forget the anxiety about her daughter’s future and focus on Iman instead, the one who was always there for her, never thwarting or challenging. The more ­Salma’s children grew away from her, became more British and less a piece of her, the more she found herself relying on Iman. She didn’t need to justify herself to Iman, or feel self-conscious