Chapter 7 – The Night He Drank
I didn't sleep after I read the police report.
I lay in the guest bed with the light off, staring at the ceiling, the words from the file looping in my head. *Last seen 6:30 p.m. Phone off at 7:10 p.m. near the Nile.* Nadia had called Adrian to say she was on her way home, and then she vanished.
I kept thinking about the photo of me on his wall. *Same eyes.* He'd torn it in half the moment he saw me looking.
At 7 a.m. Adrian came out of his bedroom, dressed in his suit, ready for work.
He stopped when he saw me at the kitchen counter.
"Good morning," I said, my voice hoarse from not sleeping.
He nodded. "Morning."
He poured coffee, drank it standing up, and headed for the door.
"Adrian," I said.
He paused, hand on the knob.
"Are you angry at me for going in your office?"
He looked at me for a long second. "Yes."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded and left.
I sat at the counter with my tea, feeling the weight of his anger. I had broken the rule, and I knew there would be consequences.
I spent the day cleaning, cooking, trying to keep busy. I made pasta for lunch. I organized the pantry. I avoided the office door like it was electrified.
At 8:15 p.m. the door opened.
Adrian walked in, took off his coat, and I immediately smelled alcohol.
He rarely drank. The three nights he'd been home, I'd never smelled it on him.
He walked straight to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, took out the bottle of whiskey and a glass, poured himself a drink, and drank it in one go.
I stood in the doorway. "Are you okay?"
He looked at me, his eyes glassy, his face flushed.
"You have her eyes," he said.
I didn't know what to say.
He poured himself another glass.
"She had the same color," he said, his voice softer now. "The same shape. Same depth."
"Who is she?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He set the glass down hard on the counter. "Don't."
"Adrian—"
"Don't ask about her."
His voice was sharp, but his eyes were hurting.
He drank the second glass in one go, put the glass in the sink, and went to his bedroom, closing the door.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the empty glass.
I was jealous of a woman I had never met.
I cleaned the glass, put the bottle back, and went to my room.
I lay in bed, listening to the silence of the apartment.
I heard Adrian moving in his room. I heard the sound of the glass being set down again.
I got up, walked to his door, and knocked softly.
"Adrian?"
No answer.
I knocked again. "Are you okay?"
Still no answer.
I opened the door a crack.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, the empty glass on the nightstand.
"Adrian?"
He looked up at me. His eyes were red.
"Go back to your room, Lila."
"I'm worried about you."
"I said go back to your room."
His voice was tired, not angry.
I closed the door and went back to my bed.
I lay there, listening.
After a few minutes I heard him get up, walk to the bathroom, turn on the shower.
The sound of water running lasted twenty minutes.
When it stopped, the apartment was quiet again.
I fell asleep at around 3 a.m.
The next morning I woke up at 6:30 a.m.
Adrian was already in the kitchen, making coffee.
He looked tired. His eyes were red, his face pale.
"Good morning," I said.
"Morning."
He poured coffee, drank it, and didn't look at me.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I'm fine."
"You drank a lot last night."
He looked at me. "I know."
"I'm sorry I made you upset."
"You didn't make me upset. I was already upset."
He finished his coffee and left for work.
I sat at the table, feeling guilty.
I had pushed him, and he'd drunk to escape.
That day I decided to give him space.
I cleaned the apartment. I cooked rice and vegetables for lunch. I didn't go near the office.
At 8:30 p.m. Adrian came home.
He looked better. Less tired.
He saw the food on the table, sat down, and ate.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome."
After dinner he went to his office.
I was washing dishes when I heard him on the phone.
His voice was low, but the door was open a crack.
"I know you're worried," he said. "But I have it under control. She's here. She's following the rules."
A pause.
"No, she doesn't know the details. Not yet."
Another pause.
"I'll tell her when the time is right."
He closed the door.
I stood at the sink with soapy hands, my heart pounding.
*She doesn't know the details. Not yet.*
What details?
What was he hiding?
The next morning Adrian left at 7 a.m.
At 10 a.m. I decided to clean the office again, but this time I wouldn't look at the files.
I knocked on the door. No answer.
I opened it.
The room was neat. The file folder *N.H.* was back under the stack of papers.
I started dusting the shelves, being careful not to touch anything.
I was wiping the desk when I noticed a small drawer on the side of the desk was slightly open.
I hesitated.
I shouldn't look.
I opened the drawer.
Inside was a small photo album.
I pulled it out and opened it.
The first page had a photo of Adrian and Nadia on their wedding day. She was in a white dress, he was in a black suit, both of them smiling, happy.
The second page had photos of them on vacation — at the beach, in Luxor, in Alexandria.
The third page had photos of Nadia alone — at her office, at a café, at home in this very apartment.
The fourth page had a photo of Nadia holding a baby.
I stopped.
A baby.
I turned the page.
There was a sonogram picture.
I felt my chest tighten.
Nadia had been pregnant.
I closed the album and put it back in the drawer exactly as I found it.
I left the office, closed the door, and sat on the couch.
Nadia had been pregnant.
She disappeared two years ago.
If the baby was full term, the child would be almost two years old now.
Where was the baby?
I sat on the couch for a long time, my mind racing.
At 8 p.m. Adrian came home.
He walked in, saw me sitting on the couch, and said, "You were in my office."
It wasn't a question.
I looked at him.
"Yes."
His eyes darkened. "I told you not to."
"I know. I'm sorry. I saw the album."
He didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry, Adrian," I said. "I was curious."
He walked to the window and looked out at the city.
"She was my wife," he said quietly. "She was pregnant when she disappeared."
I felt my heart drop.
"She was pregnant?"
He nodded.
"Where is the baby?"
He turned to look at me.
"The baby was born three months after she disappeared," he said. "A girl."
"Where is she?"
"She's with my mother."
I felt tears filling my eyes.
"You have a daughter."
He nodded.
"What's her name?"
"Layla."
My name.
Layla.
The same as mine.
I sat down on the couch.
"You named your daughter after me?"
"No," he said. "I named her Layla before I met you."
I felt the air leave my lungs.
"You married me because I have the same name as your daughter?"
He didn't answer.
I stood up. "Adrian, I'm not her. I'm not Layla. I'm Lila."
"I know," he said quietly.
"Then why am I here?"
He looked at me, and I saw pain in his eyes.
"Because you look like her," he said. "And because your name is close to hers."
I felt sick.
I went to my room and closed the door.
I sat on the bed and cried.
I was not her.
I was not Layla.
I was Lila.
But I was living in her apartment, sleeping in her guest room, cooking in her kitchen, and now I knew I shared a name with his daughter.
I wiped my tears and made a decision.
I would stay.
I would follow the rules.
But I would also find out what happened to Nadia Hassan and where Layla was.
The next morning Adrian left at 7 a.m.
At 10 a.m. I decided to call his mother.
I found the number in his phone's recent calls.
I dialed.
"Hello?" a woman answered.
"Hello, this is Lila."
There was a pause.
"Oh, Lila. How are you, dear?"
"I'm fine. I… I wanted to ask about Layla."
Another pause.
"Layla is with me," she said. "She's two years old."
"Can I see her?"
There was a longer pause.
"Adrian doesn't want you to meet her yet," she said gently.
"Why not?"
"Because you look like her mother," she said.
I felt tears in my eyes.
"I understand," I said.
"Be patient, dear. Adrian is going through a lot."
"I know. Thank you."
She hung up.
I sat on the couch, tears running down my face.
Layla was two years old.
She was with Adrian's mother.
And I couldn't see her because I looked like her mother.
That night Adrian came home at 8 p.m.
He saw my red eyes and said, "You cried."
"I talked to your mother."
He nodded. "I know."
"Why can't I see Layla?"
"Because you look like her mother."
"That's not a reason."
"It is for me."
I wanted to argue, but I saw the pain in his eyes.
"Okay," I said.
He went to his office.
I went to my room.
I lay in bed and thought about Layla.
A two-year-old girl, living with her grandmother, without her mother.
I thought about my father in the hospital.
I thought about the contract.
I thought about the three years I had agreed to.
I closed my eyes and whispered,
"I'll find out what happened to Nadia."
The next morning Adrian left at 7 a.m.
At 10 a.m. I made a decision.
I would go see Layla.
I took a taxi to Adrian's mother's house in Heliopolis.
It was a small, cozy apartment on the third floor.
I knocked on the door.
An older woman opened it.
She was in her late 60s, with gray hair and kind eyes.
"You must be Lila," she said.
"Yes."
She smiled. "I'm Mrs. Cole."
"Can I see Layla?"
She hesitated, then stepped aside. "Come in."
The apartment was warm and lived-in, with family photos on the walls.
A little girl was playing on the rug with blocks.
She had dark hair and big brown eyes.
She looked like Nadia.
She looked like me.
Mrs. Cole knelt down. "Layla, say hello to Lila."
The little girl looked up at me and smiled.
"Hi," she said in a small voice.
I knelt down to her level.
"Hi, Layla. I'm Lila."
She smiled again.
She was beautiful.
She had her mother's eyes.
I spent an hour playing with her, building towers with blocks, reading her a story.
Mrs. Cole watched us from the kitchen.
When it was time to leave, Layla hugged me.
"Bye, Lila," she said.
"Bye, Layla."
I stood up and looked at Mrs. Cole.
"Thank you for letting me see her."
"She's a sweet girl," Mrs. Cole said. "She misses her mama."
I nodded and left.
On the taxi ride home, I cried.
Layla was real.
She was Adrian's daughter.
And I couldn't be part of her life because I looked like her mother.
When I got home at 4 p.m., Adrian was already there.
He was sitting on the couch, his face hard.
"You went to see Layla," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"You were told not to."
"I know. I'm sorry. I needed to see her."
He stood up.
"You broke the rule," he said.
"I know."
"What did my mother say?"
"She said I can't see Layla because I look like Nadia."
He nodded.
"Are you going to punish me?" I asked.
He looked at me for a long time.
"No," he said. "But don't do it again."
I nodded.
He went to his office.
I went to my room.
I sat on the bed and cried.
I had met Layla.
She was beautiful.
She missed her mother.
And I was the woman who looked like her mother but could never be her mother.