thinking too excessively about all this would just bring on despair, so Leila focused herself and her nerves on the job she badly wanted.
Dr. Amina Dahbawi was a kind woman, large and matronly with a bustling efficiency of manner. She welcomed Leila with a firm, warm handshake and sat her down in a tiny office. They talked, and Leila told of her educational background and desire to work at the hospital. Dr. Dahbawi seemed impressed.
“Your educational background is more than sufficient,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “And I have a good feeling about you, Leila. You’ll be a benefit to the hospital.”
“I might work here, then?” Leila asked.
“Oh yes,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “There is a place in the pharmacy for you, as a technician.”
“Ah,” said Leila. She tried not to sound disappointed. The pharmacy would be all right, of course, but it was not the hands-on experience she wanted. “Is that the best place for me, do you think?”
“I think so. I would put you in the emergency ward, but it is so brutal, and right now it’s short of supplies, not helping hands. I’m afraid you wouldn’t do much good there.”
“Right,” said Leila. Really, any job in the hospital would be all right. Perhaps something else would open up, and she must be grateful for whatever fate sent her way. Inshallah, as they say. God’s Will. Even if Leila was not sure she believed in God any longer, fate she could handle. “I’d be happy to work wherever you believe is best,” she said.
Leila waited in the hallway while Dr. Dahbawi processed her paperwork. Tired with staring at the lights, she focused on the aged but clean linoleum floor. It was dirty white with a spattering of tiny gray-black dots, and Leila could not help but think of disease on a clean body. It was an appropriate invocation for the floor of a hospital. At the sound of footsteps, Leila looked up: it was Dr. Dahbawi.
“We can go to the pharmacy now, and I’ll introduce you,” she said.
Leila followed the doctor’s large but graceful frame down the hall, and after two left turns they came to the hospital pharmacy. It was marked by a sign in the hallway and a door with a narrow window set in it. A square waiting room greeted them, filled with people sitting or standing, waiting to pick up prescriptions. There was a window at the front with an open space below it, through which pills passed to the patients, and money from the patients passed back to the pharmacy. She hoped that would not be her job, to physically dispense prescriptions; that was secretarial, not medical.
Dr. Dahbawi took her through a squeaky door and into the back of the pharmacy. There awaited Dr. Abdul Musrahi; Leila read his name on the plastic tag that adorned the breast of his lab coat.
“Here she is, Abdul,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “As I told you, a first degree in biomedical science from Cairo University. Very sharp girl.”
“Hello, Miss al-Ghani,” said Musrahi, bowing slightly. To Leila’s relief, he was about fifty years old and had a clean and unassuming presence, unlike the other Dr. Abdul in her life. He did not offer a handshake and Leila did not expect it.
“I’ll leave you here now,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I have a line of patients waiting, and so much paperwork today. Leila, good luck! If you need anything at all, come back to me. And please stop by once in a while for a cup of tea.”
“I’ll do so,” said Leila. “Thank you.”
“Anything to help a fellow female in the medical field,” she said, sharing an amused look with Dr. Musrahi.
The pharmacy was well kept, but the metal shelves were startling in their emptiness. Only a few boxes of drugs dotted the long rows. Leaning closer, Leila saw that the shelves were labeled with a variety of pharmaceutical names: doxycycline, tinadazole, norfloxacin. But the allocated space above was empty.
“There is a constant shortage,” said Dr. Musrahi. “But we do the best we can. Come. I will show you to your workspace.”
Leila followed him through the shelves to a small measuring area with a desk heaped with stacks of pharmaceutical reference binders. There were small white paper bags in abundance, waiting to be filled with pills. Leila knew that the typical safe-latch orange plastic bottles were scarce and expensive, and would only be used for certain prescriptions or for patients willing to pay extra.
“You will be issued your coat and identification badge tomorrow,” said Dr. Musrahi. “If you go now to the front security office, they’ll take your picture so your ID can be made up.”
Leila nodded. She paused, not sure whether she was supposed to leave, or if there were further instructions.
“Here is my signature.” He paused to scribble it on a piece of paper, as though writing a prescription. “And then come in tomorrow morning at nine. Al-Razi is a teaching hospital, so you are most welcome here.”
“Thank you!” Leila said. She bowed to Dr. Musrahi and left through the front entrance of the pharmacy. It was on the second floor of the hospital and the security office was on the first; the signs were easy enough to follow. The security office was straightforward and the pieces fell together yet again for Leila’s medical career.
When she walked out the front doors of the hospital and down the worn concrete steps into a clear, sunny day, Leila allowed herself a smile. She had a job. She was on her way. The pharmacy would be a good stepping-stone, at the very least.
Leila called Sami the taximan on her mobile, and he picked her up and drove her home through the crowded streets of the city. They wound around the market area with its heavy pedestrian traffic, and it took thirty minutes for Sami to deposit Leila at her front door. With thanks, she paid him, and Sami gave Mr. al-Ghani his regards. She glanced at her watch. It was twenty past noon. A little later than she intended, but not to be helped. Leila’s feet felt leaden as she walked onto her front porch and reached for the door handle. Abdul and his son—Leila prayed they had not arrived. She opened the door and hesitated in the door frame, listening. There were no voices, no exclamations or conversation. Thank goodness. Removing her shoes to take them up to her room, Leila tiptoed toward the stairs and made it halfway up before the voice of her mother caught her short.
“Leila!” From the top of the stairs.
“Hello, Mother.”
“I’ve been waiting an hour for you, we need to start cooking!”
“Oh joy,” Leila muttered. “I need to change and put my shoes away,” she said, louder.
“Well, hurry! Cousin Abdul will arrive any minute.”
Leila waited for her mother to ask how the interview went. Umm Naji said nothing more, however, merely ducking her head and descending the stairs. Leila shrugged. Fatima would be happy for her at least. Once inside her bedroom, Leila closed the door, set down her shoes and handbag, and then did a little shake of a dance, twirling three times and smiling wide. “Dr. Leila al-Ghani,” she said to herself.
She took her time putting away her nice black suit, and poked around her wardrobe before deciding on a dark blue dress. She kept her taupe scarf on her head. Leila studied herself in the mirror: she was decent now to meet her widowed cousin. She groaned, holding on to the memory of the morning’s success at the hospital. She would not let any old relative spoil it.
There were voices down in the front hall, echoing up the stairwell. Abdul must have arrived. As she had done so often as a girl, Leila crept up to the stairs and paused there, listening.
“How is your dear mother?” Umm Naji asked.
“Very well, thank you,” she heard Abdul’s scratchy voice, followed by the whining of his son, Mohammed.
“Ouch! Ow, ow, ow!”
“Oh, look, he’s skinned his knee!” Umm Naji exclaimed. “Poor little dear, let me find Leila to take care of him.”
Leila made the nastiest face she could manage in the precious seconds before Umm