Free The Blue Between Sky and Water by Susan Abulhawa Page B

tell if someone is mad at them if they can’t see shine colors?”
    Her jiddo smiled a brilliant pink with sapphire edges. “Habibti, very few people can see colors the way you do. My sister Mariam could. It’s such a special gift, I think we should keep it as our secret. What do you think?”

    Later, curled in her jiddo’s lap as they picnicked by the pond, she asked, “Will you tell me the story again of how they shot your growing plate?”
    Her grandfather wanted to tell her that story and a thousand more from Beit Daras, again and again, and her curiosity pleased him. He wanted her to know and never forget the place that burned in his heart. He also insisted that they only speak in Arabic. He once told Nur, “Stories matter. We are composed of our stories. The human heart is made of the words we put in it. If someone ever says mean things to you, don’t let those words go into your heart, and be careful not to put mean words in other people’s hearts.”
    “I won’t get upset this time. Please tell me,” she begged.
    “Okay, habibti. But if any part makes you upset, let me know and I’ll stop.”
    Nur’s grandfather straightened his robe and took a sip of his Turkish coffee from the demitasse. He liked to take his small propane cooker to these outings to make his coffee because it reminded him of the old days in Beit Daras, when he was a boy and food was cooked over an open flame outdoors. Her grandfather took in a soft breath, a waft of a time long gone, and began.
    “We had no choice but to leave. No matter how hard we fought, we were no match for their weapons. Not even when soldiers from Sudan—that’s the name of a country, habibti—came to help us. So, we started to leave with everyone else. It was just me and my mother—”
    “What about Sulayman?”
    “—Okay, yes, I didn’t forget about Sulayman. He was with us, too. No, he’s not a real person. More like an angel, but only my mother could see him, except that day. We all saw him.”
    Nur’s eyes grew wide. “Then he got big and went into your mommy and everybody said wow and it was scary.”
    Her jiddo smiled, kissed her head. “You must wait for that part. I’m not there yet. People were coming together from all directions on the same path to Gaza. We could still hear the sounds of guns. Bad soldiers appeared along the way, shooting over our heads to make sure we didn’t go back to our homes.”
    “Why did they do that?”
    “Because they stole our country.”
    “Can they steal America, too?” Nur asked, her small brow furrowed in a way that provoked her jiddo to smile.
    “You don’t have to worry about soldiers coming here,” her jiddo assured her. “Anyway, the next thing I knew, my leg wouldn’t take another step and I fell. I had been shot … in the growth plate and that’s why my leg didn’t grow anymore.”
    “I like the way you walk,” Nur said. And before her jiddo could answer, she smiled toothily and said, “And I know that makes you happy.”
    “Well, you’re right, but remember, keep the colors between us because other people don’t understand.”
    “I’m a really good secret keeper, Jiddo!”
    “But not from your old jiddo, right?”
    “You’re not old!” Nur said emphatically, and the slight quiver in her chin betrayed her thoughts about Mahfouz, their dog who had died because he got old.
    “If I were old, could I do this?” her jiddo asked and proceeded to tickle his granddaughter, whose laughter grew in his heart.
    “What happened after the bad people shot your gross plate?”
    They continued that way, in and out of time, as little Nur listened to the days of Beit Daras, when her jiddo was a boy named Mamdouh, the beekeeper’s apprentice with two sisters and a mother who communed with the djinn.

TWENTY
    Exile in America offered a professional career and financial gains that my great-khalo Mamdouh could have only dreamed about anywhere else. “It’s a great country,” he told Yasmine,