by Rusk, Day
“...apparently he stabbed her to death,” she paused, almost as if the next words were too hard for her to say, but she forced out nonetheless, “Left her lying on the floor to...to...to bleed to death.”
Tears were racing down Kareena’s face; me, I cry now, but at the time, if anything, I was just in a complete state of shock and disbelief. I was desperately hoping to discover that Kareena had a sick, sick sense of humor and this was all a really bad joke.
Safia had left home that night saying her parents needed some help tonight at the grocery store; they had an event to be at, and Rijja and her brother were unable to fill in. Safia was happy to help her parents out. Sometimes when she visited her parent’s place, she stayed overnight. She and Rijja could then stay up chatting and gossiping with one another. That was a good thing. So when Safia hadn’t arrived home that evening, I didn’t think anything of it. I figured she was staying at her parent’s place; the fact she hadn’t called, well; we’d never been sticklers about communicating everything we were doing, every move we made. I knew she was going to be working at the grocery store, and I knew she’d end up back at her parent’s house, so I really didn’t need her to call me and tell me the obvious.
From what Kareena told me, her parents assumed Safia had closed the grocery store and come home to our place. As far as we were all concerned, she was staying with the other, safe and sound. Instead, and I don’t know if this is true or not, because not much was revealed to me, but Safia was stuck on the floor of her parent’s grocery store, slowly bleeding to death. She might have been killed quickly by the knife wounds, but in my mind, as I tried to comprehend the horror that had happened; she was there alone, bleeding to death, wondering why no one who loved her was there to help her. Why we’d all failed her.
“This can’t be real,” I said to Kareena. “No, no, this can’t be happening. NO!”
Kareena just looked at me; there was nothing to say; there was finality in death and whether we accepted it or not, Safia was dead.
I guess I’d been lucky that Kareena had even bothered to show up and let me know what had happened. Safia’s parents definitely weren’t going to call me; but as I discovered, they did want to communicate with me, and had enlisted Kareena for that task.
“What’s going on?” I finally asked, still trying to grasp and mentally accept everything. “Is there going to be a funeral? A viewing?”
Kareena looked suddenly even more uncomfortable.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“There will be a funeral. Safia will be buried within twenty-four hours of the police releasing her body. It’s a custom,” said Kareena.
“Where? When?” I asked.
“You can’t attend,” she said.
I just looked at Kareena. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“What?”
“I’m really sorry, but her family requested that I talk to you; they don’t want you anywhere near them; Safia is being buried as a Muslim and your attendance, in that the two of you were living together as man and woman out of wedlock, would be an insult to them, and dishonor the family at this time with others who were there to pay their last respects.”
I had to take a moment to let this sink in. I wasn’t allowed to pay my last respects to the woman I loved? I’d be an embarrassment? I was the one who loved her. Her parents had disowned her; turned their backs on her. If anyone should be taking care of Safia at this time, arranging her final resting place and funeral, it should be me, the man who actually truly cared. I desperately wanted to lash out, but I knew that wouldn’t be fair to Kareena; she was just delivering a message.
“I know this is horrible,” she said. “I don’t agree with them, but they asked me to talk with you to convey their wishes. Listen, if you do go it will only cause a scene; you know Safia wouldn’t like that.”
“This is fucking unbelievable,” I uttered.
“That’s not all,” she said. I could see looking at her that she was uncomfortable; Safia’s parents had placed Safia’s best friend in a most uncomfortable situation, at a time when she was no doubt hurting as much as the rest of us.
“What?” I asked coldly.
“Safia’s stuff,” said Kareena, “her personal items. The stuff you have here. Her parents have requested that you pack up her personal belongings and have them returned to their home.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They just asked me to ask you to do so.”
I was on the edge of something terrible. Grief, anger, homicidal rage? Maybe one and all rolled into one at the same time. This was too much. It took everything I had to contain myself, to remember that Kareena was just the messenger. She wasn’t being cold and unreasonable; it was Safia’s parents who were.
I knew exactly why they had asked for Safia’s personal belongings back; they wanted to erase any memory that she had strayed from them; that she had been in a relationship with me, a white man – a non-Muslim. Tragedy has struck and Safia was gone, and now it was time to eliminate me from their thoughts as quickly as they could.
“Tell them I’ll pull things together, but it will take a day or two; maybe a week. Okay?” I said.
Kareena just nodded her head, “Yes.”
I told her that as a way of avoiding an argument. I don’t know what Kareena thought about Safia’s parent’s request; whether she agreed with them or not, and to tell you the truth, I really didn’t care. I just didn’t want to get into an argument with her regarding it, if she was leaning in favor of them. There was no way in hell I was going to return Safia’s things to them. No fucking way in hell. These were the people who had sent her packing; turned their backs on her. Now they wanted to erase her existence from my life? Remove any sign that we had been together and loved one another – deeply? No fucking way. They didn’t deserve Safia’s sketch books, the ones she had just started filling in as she explored the world of art and being an artist – something, I might add, her parents failed to support in her. There was no way I was giving up that little piece of her; that piece of her I had been given for only a short time – too short a time. They weren’t going to selfishly take that away from me. Their daughter had fallen in love with a white guy, a non-Muslim, as far as I was concerned they had better grow up and accept that.
“Are you going to come to the funeral?” Kareena asked, standing up.
“No,” I said. “I’ll respect their wishes. Only because I know Safia would want me to.”
While I would have attended and paid my last respects to the woman I loved, I really didn’t want to see her parents or anyone else from their community of belief. Right now an anger seethed in me that I wasn’t sure I could control if I were confronted by any of them. Safia would not have approved of that anger; she had had to balance two worlds and try to keep everyone happy; there was no point in those two worlds colliding at her funeral and causing a scene.
Safia also knew I loved her; not just saying it, but really meaning it, from the heart and soul. She had led such a short life, but could safely say, as she traveled the undiscovered country, that in this world, this existence, she had been truly loved and known true love. Showing up at her funeral or not showing up at her funeral didn’t change any of that.
“I’ve got to go,” said Kareena. “I just can’t believe she’s not here. That she’s dead. What am I going to do without my best friend?”
I knew how she felt; there were moments of awareness and moments of denial, each of them revolving in my mind, and no doubt hers. We were here talking about Safia, about what had happened to her, her death, but at times it seemed like it wasn’t real; and then there were the moments where it hit you hard, like a sledgehammer between the eyes – no, forget that, a sledgehammer between the eyes would have been preferable to this – and the reality of the situation was just all too real in your mind; threatening to unhinge you completely.
I moved to Kareena and took her in my arms. We’d never really been that close; actually I was prett
y sure Kareena really didn’t like me, but tolerated me because Safia and I were together, but now, at this moment, in both our grief, we both needed someone to hold on to; a shared misery.
“Is it possible for you to do something for me?” I asked.
Kareena just looked at me, questioningly.
“I’m not going to attend the funeral,” I said, “but could you find out what funeral home they’ll be using?”
“Why?” she asked.
“I just need to know where she is, that’s all,” I answered. “I don’t know why it’s so important to me, but I just need to know where she is. Could you do that for me?”
“I’ll let you know,” she said.
Kareena turned to leave, but hesitated.
“Did you really love her?” she asked, turning back to me.
The question momentarily took me by surprise.
“It’s just that, her parents, some of her friends, well, they figured you were just having some fun. Safia was always beautiful; they figured to you she was exotic; that maybe you were using her for some fun; using her until you got tired of her and then you’d send her packing; move on to the next conquest. No one could believe you might actually care for her or love her. Most people thought the worst. Safia deserved better, though; she deserved the real thing. So, did you really love her?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” I said.
A small smile crossed Kareena’s face, fighting against the sadness that was there.
“She did deserve it,” Kareena said, before turning and exiting Safia’s and my home.
When Kareena left I didn’t know what to do. I was just staring at the walls – lost.
I’d considered calling my brother or sister, maybe Duncan, Munroe or any of my other friends, who would gladly rush over to be with me at this time, but didn’t. There’d be too many questions, especially about the funeral or a viewing, and when I told them what I’d been told, they’d be outraged, insisting that I do what I wanted to do, to hell with her parents. I couldn’t deal with all that. Instead of mourning the loss of Safia it would devolve into hatred – and that wasn’t right. As far as I was concerned, for Safia, I had to be the one to take the high road. I had to be the one to try and understand.
I wasn’t ready to face my family and friends; I know they’d share in my grief because they loved Safia as much as I did. Instead, I did the only thing I could think of, I got dressed, got in my car and headed for the grocery store.
As immigration had developed over the years, there were some communities that had turned very ethnic. Safia’s parent’s grocery store was in a community that catered to immigrants of South Asian descent. Over the years, the strip plazas that had featured variety stores and such, had changed complexion and now were very ethnic, with Shawarma shops, Indian video stores, and the like. A lot of the schools that had been in these communities, and run their course, had been purchased and turned into Mosques or Temples. A lot of what I remembered of my childhood, passing through these communities, was no more.
I’d never actually been in Safia’s parent’s grocery store. I’d kept my distance out of respect for her family and their wishes – always insanely believing that sooner or later they’d come around and I’d be welcomed into their world. I wasn’t going to enter the grocery store that morning either. The place was closed down, a lone police car still parked out front, and yellow police tape around it, signaling to everyone passing by that something horrible had happened here. It wasn’t a big store by any means, but as I sat there looking at the yellow police tape and staring at the door, it seemed smaller and lonelier than I remembered. It looked like a horrible place to be lying on the floor, your life slowly seeping away – you, lonely and afraid, hurting.
I cried.
I’d parked a far enough distance away so that I wouldn’t be noticed if any of Safia’s family happened to stop by the store.
I was anxious. Moments hit me where I just felt like I had to do something; I wanted to crawl up the walls, run a marathon, anything. I hated those moments, because I know they came from deep within, and I knew why they were there. I just wanted to numb myself; unfortunately, I don’t really drink. I was in pain, I was anxious from time to time, and I was angry – not a good combination. When those moments hit, I also felt like lashing out at someone; getting into a fight. I wasn’t much of a fighter, or was all that much of a tough guy in my youth, but that didn’t matter, I wanted to take on the world and if it beat me down, maybe it’d knock me unconscious and that alone would help to numb the pain within me. I wanted to die. I could not imagine moving forward without Safia in my life.
Have you ever actually contemplated suicide?
I remember, I went to high school with a girl whose brother had committed suicide. Hung himself from the football uprights late one night. Nobody had seen it, it all happened late at night, but it did cause quite a buzz at school the next day. It was hard for us to imagine anyone taking their life, especially at that age, when we all thought we were indestructible. That really was my closest brush with suicide, and even then that friend was more of an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, so it wasn’t like I ever talked to her about it, or found out why he supposedly had done it.
As I sat there in my car, I began imagining ways I would kill myself; I wanted to join Safia in the undiscovered country. Do you hang yourself; that never looked appetizing? Pills? It might be the easiest way. I didn’t own a gun, so that was out; and let’s face it, if you attempted that and blew it; you could spend the rest of your days in a wheelchair, trapped in a useless body and mind. I thought about it, but I wasn’t serious. It was a romanticized idea of following the woman I loved into the afterlife, but I knew if I’d told Safia that, she would have told me I was an idiot. I knew you could never honor someone’s memory or celebrate their life by taking your own. In many ways that would disrespect them; it was your duty to march on and cherish their memory; by remembering them, you were keeping a part of them alive here on earth.
I tortured myself for more than an hour staring at the grocery store. I had nowhere else to be.
It was on the way home that Kareena called me. The police had released the body and Safia’s parents were making arrangements for her funeral; Kareena, God bless her, told me where.
Traditionally, at least in my world, when someone dies, there are a couple of days of viewings at the funeral home. The family and friends get together and mingle, reminiscing and sharing their grief at the loss. This is usually followed by a funeral. A religious service and a journey to the cemetery, our loved one’s last resting place.
The viewings and the funeral are for the living. I discovered that with my parent’s deaths. When my mother got sick and knew she wasn’t going to make it, she insisted that when she passed we had no viewing for her, and no official funeral. She just wanted to be cremated. She explained to us that sometime later that year, when the shock of her passing had, well, passed, we could all get together, a family reunion, a party and celebrate her life. She figured at that time, there would be more joy and laughter at the get-together than there’d be right after her passing and at a formal funeral. She left all the planning in my father’s hands, who I found out believed and wished for the same.
When my mother passed, my brother, sister and I got together with my Dad, but that was it. We received phone calls from relatives saying how sorry they were, but no mass gathering of mutual mourning. I’d been to funerals in the past, namely for three of my grandparents – my Grandfather on my Mother’s side had died when I was still a little too young to be attending a funeral. Luckily, I had been old enough that I carried memories of him, and some of our outings together – he wasn’t forgotten. As I’d been to funerals, I knew the difference between them and what my Mother requested, and it was at that time I realized the viewings and the funeral were for the living. Both allow you to wrap up that person’s physical life, and contemplate their spiritual life, and where they were, or where they were g
oing. It brought about closure. With my Mother, it just seemed for the longest time, in the weeks following her death that I was at loose ends; I hadn’t been given the opportunity to formally say good-bye, like I had at other funerals. It was hard, because you didn’t know what to do and you felt like you should be doing something. It’d been rough – hard on me and my siblings.
When Dad got sick and knew he was terminal, I knew what was coming. He’d all ready made arrangements with a funeral home for his death and planned to do the same as my Mother; no viewings and no funeral, just cremation as soon as possible. There’d be no expensive coffin or up-selling on services by the funeral home – probably a relatively easy task seeing how they’re hitting you up at a time when you’re at your worst and most vulnerable. As far as Dad was concerned, find a good cardboard box, stick him in it and burn everything.
“I don’t want to be laid out for everyone to gawk at me,” he had told me as he lay in a bed towards the end. “I don’t need that. Everyone walking by the coffin looking at me and saying, ‘He looks good. They did a good job.’ I don’t look good. I’m dead, forchristsakes.”
I had to laugh, because he was right. I’d heard that so many times at the funerals I had attended. He or she looks good. That’s important when you’re being cremated or buried; you don’t want to go to the afterlife looking a mess. I’d actually been to one funeral, a friend of the family, where there was great debate over how bad a job the funeral parlor had done with the deceased’s make-up. Viewings were a strange world.
“When I’m gone, you’re going to do the same for me as I did for your Mother. I’ve made the arrangements,” my Father continued. “You have to promise me you won’t do anything else?”
I just looked at him.
“You have to be strong,” he continued. “Others are going to want you to have a funeral and a viewing; you might even get some pressure from your brother and sister, but I’m counting on you to stand firm and follow my wishes, okay?”