Zara Hossain Is Here

by Sabina Khan

  “Nilufer, I will stay right here,” Murshed Uncle reassures her. “Teri qasam, hum yahan se nahin hatenge.”

  Ammi seems satisfied with his promise to not leave Abbu’s side, and I drive us home. The ugly words are gone, but it’s still clear that something has been washed off. I’m not prepared for how I feel as soon as I walk in through the front door. Even though Abbu’s usually not home at this time of day, it’s as if the house itself knows that our world has shifted since the last time we were all in here. It’s hard to describe, but it’s palpable, this sense of loss of something vital in our lives. I remind myself that Abbu is merely in a coma, that he’ll be back soon, and our home will once again be filled with his booming laughter. But for now, there’s only a deafening silence and it’s unbearable.

  The police have kept their distance. Over the past couple of days, Shireen Khala has filled us in on the charges Abbu might face. In Texas, trespassing is a Class B misdemeanor, which can mean a fine of up to $2,000 and up to 180 days of prison time. Since Abbu has never been arrested before, Shireen Khala says prison time is highly unlikely. But this is America, so you never know. Different rules for different skin.

  It’s only a little bit comforting to know that Tyler’s father is in much bigger trouble. He’s been arraigned on a count of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, which is a felony that could lead to many years in jail. Of course, I’m sure he’ll have the best lawyer money can buy; Shireen Khala is sure that he’ll be out on bail the minute it’s offered, but that he won’t be able to go near any of us if he does get out.

  I try not to think about all this and focus instead on Abbu’s recovery and trying to give Ammi as much peace as possible. Back at home, Ammi pulls out some marinated chicken from the fridge and throws it in the oven. I busy myself with heating up naan. Neither of us is in the least hungry, but it’s something to do until we can go to sleep. We don’t bother sitting at the table, perching on the stools at the kitchen island instead. We take a few unenthusiastic bites and then give up the pretense. Ammi makes some chai, but even that tastes like emptiness.

  After a while, Ammi disappears into her bedroom. I can’t even imagine what she’s feeling, and I’m really worried about her. But I want to give her some space, so I don’t follow her.

  I go to my own room and rummage through the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I pull out a pillowcase I’d started embroidering months ago when Tyler had said something particularly upsetting at school. I’d started feeling anxious all the time, and Ammi had suggested working on something repetitive to distract me. I’d completely forgotten about it, but now I need this to quiet my mind. Nani had taught it to me years ago when she visited, and it makes me feel close to her whenever I work on a piece. I tighten the screws of the frame so the fabric is nice and taut. I’m close to being finished but still need to complete the plumage of one last peacock. The frame is the same one my grandmother used when she first started as a little girl. That first time Nani visited, she showed me how to make tiny clothes, and as a result, my Bratz dolls were the best dressed in the neighborhood.

  As I push the needle in and out, filling out the feathers with brightly colored thread, I feel my heartbeat slowing down to a normal pace. My mind calms as the pattern emerges. Teal, black, gold. Teal, black, gold. When I finally put it down, I’m surprised to see that almost an hour has passed. I go to check on Ammi. I don’t see her on her bed or in the armchair by the window, so I knock on her bathroom door. She doesn’t answer, but there’s no mistaking the sobs I can hear.

  “Ammi, are you okay?”

  It’s a silly question. Of course she’s not okay. Neither one of us is. But I can’t bear the thought of her crying all alone. I knock again, more urgently this time.

  I hear her moving toward the door and there’s even sadness in her steps as she turns the lock. I enter to find her standing in front of the sink and look at her tearstained face in the mirror. Our eyes meet and mine fill with tears of their own. I put my arms around her, wanting to take away all the pain, but I’m as helpless as she is.

  “Zara, beta, please don’t start crying now,” she says.

  “I’ll stop if you do, Ammi,” I say, smiling tremulously.

  Ammi wipes her face with a towel and turns to look at me. She takes my face in her hands and takes a deep breath.

  “I don’t know how to be without him, Zara,” she says, her voice sadder than I’ve ever heard before. “We’ve never been away from each other for such a long time. Not since after we moved to this country.”

  “Ammi, he’ll wake up soon,” I say, as much to convince myself as her. “Dr. Mehta said the brain swelling is coming down, so it’s just a matter of time.”

  That night, I sleep in her bed, my arms wrapped tight around her. I can’t let her sleep all alone in the big bed she’s shared with my father for so many years. And honestly, I need it as much as she does, because neither one of us can bear the emptiness that threatens to engulf us.

  We take more shifts the next day; Abbu’s condition is improving but slowly. So slowly.

  I stop home briefly right after dinner. When I get back to the hospital, I swing by the cafeteria to grab some coffee and find Shireen Khala at one of the corner tables, working on her laptop. Ammi’s sitting next to her, holding a piece of embroidery she’s been working on and staring off into the distance. Murshed Uncle is on his phone by the window.

  “Who’s with Abbu?” I ask as soon as I see them.

  “Nick came by,” Ammi says. “He seemed really upset, so we thought we’d give him some space.”

  “I’ll go and check on him.” I hurry to the elevators, wondering why he didn’t tell me that he was coming here. I find him sitting next to Abbu’s bed, with Ammi’s iPad in his hands. He’s watching the game. A lump forms in my throat at the sight of my best friend sitting with my father like that, their heads close together, and for a moment it’s as if nothing bad has happened, and Abbu and Nick are doing what they love best. A sob must have escaped me because Nick looks up abruptly and sees me standing there with tears rolling down my face. He’s by my side in a flash.

  “I’m sorry, Zara, I didn’t mean to upset you.” His red-rimmed eyes are all the explanation I need. “We were supposed to watch the game tonight. So I figured I could come here, and … you know.”

  “I’m not upset, Nick. The doctor said that Abbu can probably hear us. I know he’s so happy that you’re here.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t try to stop the tears from falling this time.

  “Did you talk to my teachers?” I change the subject because otherwise I might never stop crying.

  Nick wipes his nose on his shirtsleeve even though there are at least three boxes of tissues in this room. Some things never change.

  “I did. And Priya did too. They all said not to worry and that you can catch up when you’re back.”

  “Did you take good notes in chem though?” Abbu wouldn’t want me to fall behind while he was here.

  “How can you think about school right now, Zara?” Nick’s looking at me as if I’ve grown another head.

  “What do you mean? Abbu’s going to wake up as soon as the swelling in his brain goes down. And then he’s going to feel awful when he hears that I’ve fallen behind. You know how he is about school.”

  Nick continues to stare at me without saying a word. Then he shrugs and shakes his head.

  “I’ll come by after school tomorrow,” he says.

  I don’t say anything as he quietly slips out the door, but I can’t help thinking that I must be some kind of monster to worry about my classes at a time like this.

  Your education is the most important thing in your life right now. I hear Abbu’s voice and I know it’s only in my head, but I’m sure that this is what he would say to me if he could speak. You will always have options with a degree. You never know what life will throw at you, but you must always be prepared, and you must always be able to rely on
your knowledge and yourself.

  Abbu’s said these words to me so many times over the years that I hear them in my sleep. I know they come from a place of worry and concern, a place many immigrants are painfully familiar with. It’s the fear that everything they’ve worked so hard for could be snatched away in an instant. But your education is something that no one can take away from you.

  I watch as Abbu’s chest rises and falls, and the rhythm soon has my eyes feeling heavy. I lean back into the chair and let the exhaustion take over.

  * * *

  When Ammi and I pull into the driveway a couple of days later, the first thing I notice is that the wall and garage door have been freshly painted. Inside, we find Nick and his parents waiting for us.

  “Did you all do this?” Ammi asks as soon as we walk in.

  Aunty Isabella smiles at us.

  “All the neighbors helped,” she says.

  “It’s the least we could do,” Uncle John says.

  Ammi and I have been alternating between home and the hospital, with no time to worry about how the streaks on the wall were a clear reminder of what had been on there. Nick and his parents have been wonderful, taking care of Zorro, bringing us food, and, most important, keeping us company. But this goes above and beyond.

  “Murshed is with Iqbal, right?” Aunty Isabella asks. Ammi nods.

  “Good, then you can sit and have a proper meal before you go back.”

  Something smells delicious, and I walk over to the stove to take a peek. There’s chili simmering in a pot, and my mouth waters immediately.

  “Thank you all,” Ammi says, throwing her arms around Aunty Isabella. “I miss eating at my own table.”

  The doorbell rings, and Nick goes to answer it. It’s his grandmother, and she’s brought freshly baked jalapeño corn bread. It’s perfect with the chili, and afterward we all sit around the table talking about Abbu for a bit.

  “Ammi, we’re taking Zorro out for a walk,” I say when Zorro’s cold nose rubbing against my leg reminds me that he hasn’t been out for a while. I’m assuming that Nick will want to come with me.

  “Okay, but be careful!” Ammi calls out over her shoulder. I know what she’s worried about.

  Nick and I walk in silence until we’ve reached the park. There are still a few families around, but mostly it’s empty. The sun has almost set, and an orange glow dances off the water as we step into one of the little miradores that line Ocean Drive. Sunset by the water has always calmed me and I come here a lot with Zorro, but today it’s not the same.

  “Zara,” Nick begins hesitantly, “you know I’m here for you, right? Whatever you need.”

  I nod, the lump in my throat reminding me that I haven’t cried yet today. Because crying is kind of pointless right now, isn’t it? I don’t want to keep any negative thoughts in my mind, but I can’t help wondering, What if Abbu never wakes up?

  That’s when the tears come, and Zorro is whining and then I’m sobbing into Nick’s T-shirt as he wraps his arms around me in that way that always makes me feel better. Even today when I don’t think anything can be good again. I don’t stop for a long time, and when I do, all that remains is a seething anger. I know Nick will understand because he feels it too. Especially when it comes to people like Tyler.

  “I should have just kept my mouth shut about Tyler.” I pull out a tissue from the pocket of my shorts and blow my nose.

  “Do you really think you could live with yourself if you had?” Nick asks.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Nick, I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

  I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to pull in air, but it’s not enough. My head pounds with every heartbeat. I take several shallow breaths because that’s all I can do, and soon I’m hyperventilating.

  Nick puts his hands on my shoulders and bends to look me in the eyes.

  “Zara, look at me,” he says. “We’ll fight this together.”

  Some of the panic dissipates at his words. I relax my shoulders a little.

  “Remember what Uncle Iqbal always says: Don’t become a ghost before you’re dead.”

  A laugh escapes me at his translation of Abbu’s favorite piece of advice for me. Marne se pehle bhoot nahin ban jao. He’s always telling me to stop imagining the worst before it happens.

  “Do you think he’ll wake up soon?” I lean my head against his chest, and he strokes my hair.

  “I know he will.”

  I want to believe him. I need to believe him if I’m going to get myself and Ammi through this.

  “We should get back before my mom starts to freak out.”

  We make our way home, stopping on the way by the bush where Zorro once found a slice of pizza. He insists on checking for it every time we pass by there. It amazes me that he can’t remember the command for sit, yet the pizza miracle from months back is permanently etched in his memory.

  Nick and his parents stay until it’s quite late, and Ammi sends them on their way after assuring them that we are fine.

  “Promise to call if you need to talk,” Nick says to me at the door.

  There’s an eerie silence in the house after they’ve left. I expect Abbu to come walking in through the door any second, asking what smells so good. He sets down his bag and tells us about yet another cute patient he’s seen today and shows us a drawing one of the kids made for him. There’s always something, but not today. Today there’s only an oppressive emptiness, and I’m suffocating in it.

  It’s been exactly one week since Abbu was shot, and I’m having trouble keeping it together. Thankfully, Murshed Uncle is still here and helping us cope. We’ve taken turns going home, to bathe and eat, but I can tell that we’re all on the verge of losing it. Ammi’s been trying to convince me to go back to school so I don’t fall behind too much, but I can’t bring myself to pretend that everything is normal, as if nothing’s changed while Abbu lies in a hospital bed. Nick and Priya have been amazing, keeping me caught up as much as they can. I keep my schoolbag with me at all times, finding secluded spots around the hospital waiting areas in which to finish my homework. Chloe has come by often to check on us, and the few stolen moments with her help me get through the days. Ms. Talbot’s been in touch as well, making sure I’m okay. My other teachers have been pretty great too, giving me plenty of time to make up the work I’m missing.

  I watch Ammi as she fusses over the sheet that’s draped across Abbu’s chest. Freddie Mercury is playing in the background while Ammi works on her embroidery. Queen’s always been their jam. In fact, it’s one of the things that drew them to each other. I’ve heard the story a thousand times. Ammi was sitting in the park listening to Queen on her Walkman when Abbu sat on the bench across from her. He’d been watching her for weeks, working up the courage to talk to her. When he finally did, she was sitting with the headphones on and didn’t notice him. He waited until she was leaving and then pretended to find a handkerchief on the ground. Every time Abbu tells this story, I make fun of him for being so cheesy. But secretly I love the story of their meet-cute because they’re just so sweet together. And I was introduced to Freddie Mercury and his amazing voice as a result. So, it’s a win-win for me.

  Priya and Nick text me from the parking lot. They want to know if I can grab a quick lunch with them.

  “Is it okay if I go out with Nick and Priya?” I ask Ammi. “I won’t be long.”

  “Haan, beta, please go and relax,” Ammi says, stroking my hair. “I’m glad at least your friends are able to convince you to leave here for a bit.”

  We go to Steak ’n Shake, and it’s just like all the times we’ve come here before. Nick orders and inhales a burger and a milkshake, while Priya and I split a large order of Cajun fries and a Nutella milkshake. It feels good to take a break from worrying about Abbu to gossip about people at school. I can tell that Nick and Priya are being careful not to talk about anything Tyler-related and I love them for it.

  “It’s good to hear you laughing,”
Nick says suddenly.

  “Way to make things weird, Nick,” Priya says, scowling at him.

  “What? I’m just saying—”

  I smile as I shake my head at the two of them, and Nick takes this as an invitation to steal a couple of fries off our plate. I swat his hand away before he can take more, just as my cell phone buzzes.

  It’s a text from Ammi.

  I gasp loudly. “Oh my God, my dad just woke up.”

  I start to shake uncontrollably, but thankfully Nick and Priya take charge. We make our way back to the hospital, and I run in, taking the stairs two at a time until I’m standing in front of his room.

  Dr. Mehta is already in the middle of examining Abbu, so I can’t get close to him yet. Ammi’s face is lit up, and she doesn’t stop smiling. Neither do I because this feels like some sort of a miracle.

  “Well, Mrs. Hossain,” Dr. Mehta says, “everything looks excellent.”

  “So, when can we take him home?” Ammi asks.

  “In a couple of days, I promise,” he replies with a smile. “We still want to keep him under observation. I’d like to do a CT scan and a few more tests just to be sure. So, let me set those up, and I’ll let you know shortly.”

  He leaves, and finally we can be alone with Abbu. He’s lost weight, which is hardly surprising given that he’s been here for a whole week. Ammi’s kept him clean-shaven the entire time, saying that she wants him to feel taken care of. He looks a little overwhelmed but otherwise well. He smiles and holds out his hands. Ammi and I put our arms around him, and we’re both crying. It’s been the longest week of our lives, and now that we finally have him back, I can hardly believe it. We sit with him and talk for a while, about everything. Abbu is thrilled to see his brother, and we give them some time to catch up.

  Not long after, Officers Hernandez and Nolte show up to question him. Shireen Khala is also here. They’ve been notified by the hospital that Abbu is awake and able to speak. My stomach is all tied up in knots once again as Ammi, Murshed Uncle, and I are asked to step outside.