and on her arm. Leila’s eyes widened as Sayyid readjusted his position against her, and she felt him pressing up harder against her lower abdomen. Leila gagged.
“Come on, habibti.”
Leila narrowed her eyes and stopped struggling. Let him think she was considering the proposal. He loosened his grip, and then quick as a cat she ducked away from him.
“You will not touch me again!” she said. “I swear upon Allah, I will tell Dr. Musrahi.”
“No, you won’t,” Sayyid said. He put his hands in his front pockets. Leila avoided looking there. She just focused on his sneer. “Musrahi won’t hear of it. The other girl who complained got fired. Whatever you say, honey, I’ll deny.”
Leila flushed in anger and shame. The worst part was that what Sayyid said was true. In a battle of words, Sayyid would win. If she complained he had accosted her, she would be fired, if only to remove her from the situation. That was the way it worked. A boiling rage simmered around the edges of Leila’s vision, and she wished that for ten minutes, she could be a man. That way she might get Sayyid fired and beat him to a pulp as well.
Standing with him in the narrow, grimy space of the pharmacy’s back room, Leila glanced at the wall clock. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Leila did not want to be with Sayyid anymore; what if he tried something else? Dr. Musrahi had not yet returned, and might be delayed. “I’m going home,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”
The smirk on Sayyid’s face grew wider. He knew he’d won. “I’ll finish your work,” he said, and again Leila wanted to slap him. If she went home early, it would make her look lazy, and Sayyid would get the credit for doing the job.
It was a choice between staying the afternoon alone with lust-crazed Sayyid, or feigning illness and getting blamed for avoiding work. Leila hesitated. But one more glance at Sayyid made up her mind: no job was worth this. If she was dishonored, that would be the end of her. “I’m going,” she said. She grabbed her handbag and rushed out the door before she could be further insulted.
As she rode her bicycle home that day in the light afternoon traffic, Leila could not stop rehashing what had happened. It was so unfair. It was unprofessional and wrong and Leila had no one to talk to about it. She would not go to Dr. Musrahi; if Sayyid was telling the truth, she would be fired. Her parents were out of the question, and Leila did not want to burden Fatima with the worry that she might be attacked at the hospital.
Leila was alone in the world. She swerved her bicycle out of the way for a large honking truck that lumbered down the narrow side street she’d chosen that day. She still varied her route to and from the hospital. Today she was motivated by the irrational fear that Sayyid might follow her, and she could not help glancing over her shoulder, looking for his gleaming hair gel amongst the street crowd.
The entire family was home when Leila entered her own spacious house in the Wahdah neighborhood. Her parents were in the sitting room with Fatima, Naji, Naji’s wife and children, and cousin Abdul, on the last full day of his visit.
“Leila! What are you doing home?” Umm Naji said, necessitating that Leila give her greetings to the rest of the family.
“Hello,” Leila said in the general direction of the room, trying in vain to keep a flush from edging across her face. She hesitated. “They let us off early today. Until we get a new shipment of drugs, we can’t do anything.”
Umm Naji made a noise with her tongue against her teeth. “The hospitals are all understocked. It’s worse than during the sanctions!”
Tamir grunted. “Just proves that the Americans are not the answer to our problems. They are the problem.”
Leila backed out of the room. Once her father was on the subject of the Americans, she would not be questioned further about her day at the hospital. She went upstairs to change out of her work clothes, and as she unbuttoned her jacket her fingers trembled. She’d had a close call today. Sayyid might have raped her, and then what would be her choice? She could report it and bring tremendous shame upon the family, or she could keep silent and suffer. Leila sank down onto her bed, relieved that she had escaped with only a bruised ego. She sent a little prayer up to Allah, her first genuine prayer in a long time.
Leila did not rejoin her family that night. Instead she pleaded a headache, successfully avoided cousin Abdul, and secluded herself into the safe cocoon of her own room. She had every reason to be grateful.
The next morning, Leila knew what she should do. Dr. Amina Dahbawi might offer her some advice. She did not phone in to the pharmacy that she would be late; instead Leila left an hour earlier than usual to call on Dr. Dahbawi in person. At eight o’clock in the morning, the hospital would not be busy.
“Leila!” said Dr. Dahbawi, opening the door of the little office when Leila knocked. “Come in!”
“Hello, Dr. Dahbawi,” said Leila. She clasped her hands and sat on the proffered foldaway metal chair.
“How are you? Your job in the pharmacy is good?” Dr. Dahbawi asked, shuffling through a stack of papers on her scuffed metal desk.
“Well…” Leila paused.
“You are lucky to have such work. Out of the line of fire, so to speak,” the doctor continued. She squeezed into her desk chair and it creaked in protest. “Just yesterday, I saw two children who’d happened upon some old ordnance. Twin brother and sister. The boy lost both arms, and the girl did not survive.” Dr. Dahbawi sighed. “You are glad you don’t have to see it.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” said Leila. Leila suddenly felt awkward; her problem seemed so trivial compared to the tragic stories of the pediatric ward.
Dr. Dahbawi raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“It’s Sayyid,” Leila said. “My coworker in the pharmacy, you know.”
“Sayyid?” Dr. Dahbawi paused and looked up at the ceiling, as though searching her memory. “Ohhh yes. Sayyid. Young man, a bit flighty.”
“That’s the one,” said Leila. “Anyway, I didn’t know who else to talk to about this. Yesterday afternoon, he—he—well, I guess you could say—”
“He’s giving you trouble?” Dr. Dahbawi asked, peering at Leila. “Is he tardy? Not doing his job?”
“Not that, exactly,” said Leila. She felt as if she were on fire, but she had to just say it, blurt it out, get it over with. “He behaved inappropriately,” she said in a rush. “He started out just flirting, you know, but yesterday he grabbed me.”
Dr. Dahbawi sat back in her chair, her mouth an O of surprise. “He grabbed you.”
“Yes,” said Leila. “I told him to let me go, that I was not interested, but he wouldn’t listen until I got away from him. Then I left for the afternoon because I didn’t want to be alone with him anymore.”
“I see,” said Dr. Dahbawi. She pressed her large fingers together on top of her stack of papers. “Have you encouraged him in any way? Responded to his flirtations?”
Leila made an involuntary face. “Of course not!” she said. Could Dr. Dahbawi think her capable of sloppy moral conduct?
“Are you certain of it, Leila? Sometimes what seems innocent can lead to other expectations.”
“I’m certain, Dr. Dahbawi,” Leila said. She stared down the older woman. “I would never consider it. I never encouraged his attentions.”
“I see,” Dr. Dahbawi said again. “You were right to come to me. Perhaps we can work something else out.”
“I want this to be my career,” Leila said. She was desperate. She was serious about being a doctor. “Please, I want experience. I want to go to medical school. And I don’t want some man to—”
“Take it easy, child,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I know. And