Excerpt from The Confusion of Languages by Siobhan Fallon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Part One

3:00 p.m.

We are close, so close, to Margaret's apartment, and I feel myself sink deeper into the passenger seat, relieved that I have succeeded in my small mission of getting Margaret out of her home, if only for a few hours. The day is a success. Sure, I had to let her drive, something I usually avoid. Margaret is ­always too nervous, too chatty, looking around at the pedestrians, forgetting to put on her signal, stomping on the brakes too late. But today I actually managed to snap her out of her sadness. I have done everything a good friend should.

It's not until we reach the intersection at Horreyya and Hashimeyeen that I realize my mistake. I've misjudged the time, something I never do. Friday prayers have already let out. We'd stopped by the ceramics house to pick up a box of pottery I'd ordered and Margaret, being Margaret, sat down for too long with the hijab-ed women at their worktable, letting them touch Mather, pinching his cheeks and thighs, rubbing silica dust all over his tender baby skin. Now the intersection ahead is congested, chaotic. I see men strolling from the mosques, climbing into the cars they triple-parked along the main road.

I sit up straight, the seat belt pressing against my chest.

The traffic light turns yellow as we approach and cars alongside us speed by. Margaret could step on the gas and easily make the light but both of us see a man on the sidewalk, waving his entire arm in the air.

"Just go—" I urge, but Margaret shakes her head, slowing the car, the corner of her mouth turning up.

"It's uncanny how he always sees me." She says something like this every single time and I usually reply, The man's livelihood depends on his ability to spot the softhearted suckers. But today I am silent. Mather shouts from his car seat but she ignores him too.

Her window is down before we've come to a complete stop. The man reaches into the cluster of dented white buckets at his cornerside stand, pulls free a few dripping-wet bouquets, then dodges traffic until he's at Margaret's side.

He leans through the window, wearing a red and white checked kaffiyeh around his throat. Margaret's wallet is on her lap, ready.

"Hello, baby!" the man shouts at Mather, avoiding looking at both of us women with our loose hair and bared elbows. His flowers are spread perfectly across his arm, inches from the very face he will not peer into. The car fills with the scent of crushed rose petals, exhaust, and his sweat, a faint mix of onions and soil. I do not point out that most of his offerings are wilted, tinged with brown. I notice the cluster of pristine white blossoms at the same time Margaret does, fragile, lacy blooms on very green stems, and she nods toward them, holding up her money. It takes only seconds.

As he passes the chosen bouquet to Margaret through the window, Mather yells again from the backseat, wanting something; that child is always wanting something. The man turns to the baby but he doesn't stop there; he lifts his face and stares behind our car, his brown eyes widening with fear as he stumbles backward. Before I can look around, there is a ripping scream of brakes and our car leaps forward with a thud of crushed metal. Our heads rock on our spines and there are flowers in flight across the dashboard, white blossoms spread open like tiny, reaching hands.

May 13, 2011

3:33 p.m.

Margaret, this happens all the time." We stand outside her apartment, her baby on my hip. I know I am too chipper for the occasion, that I am still on uncertain ground, but I am glad to be here. It's been weeks since she's invited me in, weeks since I have held her child close. I continue directing words at her as she digs through her massive handbag: "You haven't really lived in the Middle East until you've been in a car accident." She glances up and I see my attempt at humor has failed. Her blue eyes are so red she looks like a white lab mouse, worn and wary from too many experiments. Her gaze is naked, injured, disturbing.

Excerpted from The Confusion of Languages by Siobhan Fallon. Copyright © 2017 by Siobhan Fallon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.