Second verse, just like the first

"This is a reconstruction. All of it is a reconstruction."

The Handmaid's Tale; Margaret Atwood

***

We're sitting side by side. The chairs here are the hard, metal, folding kind, and the area is little more than a corner turned holding area, with rather poor lighting and certainly nothing to offer in way of entertainment to pass time for those who wait. None of that really matters, though, since nothing could honestly offer enough comfort or distraction to make us forget why we're waiting.

"Are you going to get a copy of the preliminary again, before they send out the final report?"
"Yes, just like last time."
"And you'll call me first, no matter..."
"Yes, just like last time."

We both move around a little, trying to find a spot where our chair actually feels like one. There isn't one.

"Are you going to have them over when I call with the final results, so you're all in the same place?"
"Yes, just like last time."
"And you'll call me back afterwards, no matter..."
"Yes, just like last time."

She pulls out a manila folder and takes out a pen to make notes on a patient's report. I pull out my laptop and bring up a design document to edit. Half an hour, she hasn't made a single mark on the paper, and I'm still watching the cursor blink at the beginning of the document.

Just like last time.

***

Whenever it is just the two of us together for a significant period of time, I remember this. I've thought about it so many times, I sometimes wonder if I'm making up parts of it--it seems so perfectly orchestrated in my mind, like a scene out of a movie, than I have to wonder. But even if a particular retrospection is larger than life, it doesn't make it less real.

***

She comes back, having gone to see how much longer it will be.

"Another twenty minutes," she says.

I get up to stretch my legs, and come back to find her putting away the manila folder. I'd already packed away the laptop while she was gone.

"Were you remembering again?"
"Yep."
"Tell me again."

Like a one trick pony Scheherazade, I perform on command. Just like last time.

***

We're bored. The television holds no interest, and neither does the radio, both now seemingly devoting themselves exclusively to news of the revolution. We've read all our books several times over. It's already getting dark, which means we can't even kill time going to the mini-super. In any case, it's raining unexpectedly. Besides which, we're not even really allowed to go out by ourselves during the daytime, anymore, without a responsible grown-up accompanying us--this last really chafing her, since it completely negates her position as one, something she had just started to enjoy since turning 15.

"How about some 'Old Songs'?", she asks, holding up a cassette.

The first song comes on. We both find this song hilarious, the juxtaposition of Arabic and French (and Spanish, it seems) for some reason amusing us to no end. With exaggerated hip movements, we twirl around, facing each other to sing the words which are more than just words to us, even as we laugh about them. I take great care to pronounce the French "r's" just as she's told me ("Don't roll it with your tongue, like in Farsi; do it with your throat"--a line that years later also ends up amusing us to no end, when I remind her of it) and get a barely perceptible nod of approval.

"Cherie, je t'aime...cherie, je t'adore"

Ya Mustafa - Bob Azzam


The next song is equally as cheery, and also has ten times the saccharine. She perches on top of the impressive tower we've made from the cushions belonging to our garden table and chair set (brought inside to avoid getting wet from the unexpected summer rainstorm), to sing along, while I still keep spinning and singing, like the opening scenes from 'The Sound of Music'. We're not allowed to sit or otherwise play around with the cushions, but our parents are not home, and the shared defiance, initiated by her, is one of our long established bonding rituals. It's understood that if we get found out, I will play fall guy because I will only get a verbal chastising, with only a likely "And you should know better than to let her" thrown her way. In return, I will continue to have full access to her records and record player. These things are understood.

"Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera"

Que Sera, Sera - Doris Day


Halfway through the song she stops singing, and I, ever in tune with her changing moods, also stop to see if it's because of something I am doing. She's not looking at me, though, she's staring down at her feet. I call her by her nickname and she looks back at me, and says in a serious voice,

"Do you know what that means?"
"What?"
"Que sera, sera?"
"Whatever will be, will be."
"No, I mean do you understand what it means?"

I look at her a bit blankly, and also a bit expectantly and in slightly excited anticipation. Because I know that tone of voice; it's the one she uses when she wants tell me something really interesting. Sometimes I don't really understand her, but she is very good with explaining things over and over until I do. At times like that, I love her so much it makes me almost want to cry.

She walks over to the cassette player, hits pause, and then for the next few minutes, starts telling me about these things called fate and karma, not what I know of them from sayings and parables often quoted by the older members of the family, like my grandparents and great aunts and uncles, but from these books she's reading by someone called Dostoyevksy and Maxim Gorky. I don't understand a lot of what she says, but I don't want to stop her because there is something fascinating about what she is telling me, even though I can't make sense of it. There is something a bit scary about what she says--did she just say there is no God?--but also something rather liberating, although it will be years before I know enough to put that particular label on it.

The pause button has, in the meantime, released, and even as she's been talking the songs have been playing. When she finally stops, we're already half way through a song which I've never really liked much, but know by heart anyway.

"I couldn't say the things I should have said
Refused to let my heart control my head"

The Music Played - Matt Monroe



It's really dark in the living room now; the only light is from the controls on the stereo. She rearranges the cushions so now there's two towers of equal height, right up against the wall, and easily lifts and sits me on one, before hopping on the second one herself. The last song comes on and she tells me very quietly to listen to the words. Listen carefully, she tells me, and try and remember it. I already know the words, so once again I'm left to wonder what exactly it is she wants me to do, but still, I listen. I listen harder than I have before.

The song ends and we sit there companionably for a while. I'm starting to slip a little off the cushions and without really looking at me, she senses this and steadies me with her hand.

"And every conversation I can now recall
Concerned itself with me, and nothing else at all"

Yesterday When I Was Young - Roy Clark



"You know, some day you and I won't be young. We'll be as old as Maman and Baba are,"--this seems so very old to me, just then, being all of seven--"but you know what's neat? You'll look back and you'll remember this and sitting here with me and listening to this song, and it will be okay."

I'm not sure what she means when she says it will be okay, but even though I don't get it, I don't doubt that she is telling the truth. If she says it will be okay, it will be.

***

"I can't believe you still remember all that."
"That's what you said before."
"And I can't believe I would tell you all that stuff. You poor kid, it's a wonder you didn't end up in a strait jacket."
"You said that last time, too."
"Are you trying to tell me I'm getting old and forgetful?"
"Maybe."

She makes like she is going to swat my head, but just pulls me close.

***

It will be okay.

Just like last time.