We Are All That's Left

by Carrie Arcos

  He shifts in his seat, and I put my head down, pretend I haven’t been staring at him for the last five minutes. I feel his gaze on me, so I close my eyes like I’m praying. And then I actually do pray. God, please help my mom. I use the same words I said earlier, because maybe if I say the same prayer multiple times, God will know I mean it, and take it more seriously. Only this time I add, And please help me too.

  Since my prayer lasts about three seconds, I’m not sure what else I should do. The guy is facing forward, head down again, and I’m feeling anxious with him here. I shift in my seat, and my phone falls to the ground.

  He turns around in his seat and stares at me.

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry.” Then I notice that I’m speaking too loudly. “Sorry,” I say again in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “What?” he asks, and then removes the earbuds I didn’t notice before.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I say again. “It’s just so pretty in here.”

  “No worries,” he says, and smiles. He looks up at the ceiling. “This is the best part.”

  “Yes,” I say, following his gaze.

  “I’m Joseph,” he says.

  “Zara.”

  He smiles wide, and it lights up his whole face. He’s wearing a red shirt and two necklaces with some kind of charm at the end of each. He looks like he’s probably around my age.

  “You visiting someone?” he asks.

  “My mom. You?”

  “Grandmother.”

  I nod.

  “Looks like you had something happen too?” He touches the side of his face to indicate the scrapes on my own.

  My hands fly up to my face, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. I had forgotten for a moment that a huge white bandage still covers my cheek.

  “Oh, yeah. I was at the farmers market.” Even from where Joseph sits, he can probably see the tracks of red that climb up to my temple.

  “Wow,” he says, traces of the previous smile now gone and replaced with genuine concern.

  “Yeah. Wow.”

  “And your mom, was she there too?”

  “Yeah. She was hurt pretty bad. She’s been in a coma since the bombing. My dad, he’s a doctor here, he keeps telling me that she’s going to be okay. But how can we know, you know? She might never wake up.” I shrug, and it pulls at the stitches on my back. I wince, but if Joseph notices, he doesn’t say anything. I don’t know why, but it feels so easy to talk to this complete stranger. Maybe it’s being in a chapel.

  “My grandmother survived the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. She lost her sister and two cousins. Now she’s here with cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. This morning she told me that she’s fine with dying. That if it’s God’s will, then it is His will.”

  Something about that logic bothers me. “It seems odd to think that God would want someone to die.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t think she means it like how you might be thinking. She’s not saying God is planning on taking her life. We’re all going to die sometime. I think she just means that she knows her life is in God’s hands and if her time is now, then she trusts God has a reason for that.”

  “And is that what you believe?” I ask. “That everything’s in God’s hands?”

  He smiles. “That’s a complicated question.”

  I wonder what my mom would say if she heard me talking about God in this way. Would she be surprised? Did she think it was God’s will when her whole family was killed? Or that we survived a bombing? Were the bad things that happened to us really God’s will? That makes it sound like God is out to get us. That He doesn’t care. People do bad things all the time, like the bomber. How can acts of violence, terrorism, be God’s will?

  Joseph stands up and moves closer to me so that now there’s only one row separating us. He’s black, and his hair is styled with a slight fade and medium-length ’fro twisted on most of the ends. He rests his hands on the back of his seat. I notice his fingers are long; he wears a couple of silver rings of varying sizes on both hands and a leather band on one of his wrists. There’s something engraved on it, but I can’t make out what it says.

  “I think it’s normal for us to look for answers after terrible things happen,” he says. “To try to make sense of it all.”

  Is that what I’m trying to do? So far I haven’t been able to make sense of any of it.

  “Last year,” he continues, “a friend of mine died. One day he’s shooting hoops with me, the next day, he’s dead.” He stops speaking and begins playing with the leather strap around his wrist.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I started thinking about life and what I believe. Like, take my grandmother. She has seen terrible things happen in her lifetime, but she still has this strong faith in God. Why? Is it just to make her feel better? Or is there some deeper meaning?” He holds up the black journal he has on his lap. “I started writing down questions, and then I went in pursuit of the answers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I started with religion, to see how they answered the questions. I began with the big ones: Judaism, Christianity, Islam. Kind of crazy how they all come from the same story.”

  “Um, yeah . . .” I say slowly.

  “You know—Abraham? The story in Genesis, the first book of the Bible or the Torah.”

  I stare at him sideways, suddenly wary. I didn’t come in here to be given a lecture on religion. Of course I find the one religious weirdo.

  “Interesting,” I say, not wanting to be rude. I look over my shoulder at the door, suddenly hoping maybe someone else will come in.

  “Check it out,” he continues. “Abraham had two sons—with his wife, Sarah, and his wife’s servant, Hagar. Ishmael, Hagar’s son, was taken to Mecca and became a prophet and an ancestor of Muhammad. Isaac, Sarah’s boy, became the father of the Israelites and the ancestor of Jesus.” He leans back. “So you could say we’ve been watching one big family feud play out across generations.”

  I stare at him. Is this guy for real?

  When I’ve finally found my voice again, I say, “Yeah, well, as someone who was just caught in the crossfire, I don’t really see it that way.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. Of course not. I don’t mean to be insensitive. I . . . sometimes I just have this habit of saying too much. My mom always points it out. Whenever I get excited about something. Or I’m nervous or whatever . . .” His voice trails off.

  I stare at the ground. Suddenly I feel like crying, and I regret coming inside the chapel. I hate that it feels like I can’t get ahold of my emotions.

  I stand up to leave, but Joseph stands too and keeps talking to me.

  “I’ve just always been curious about God. Who He is. How to know Him. And sometimes it seems crazy to believe that there even is a God, but people from every culture, in every time, have believed, so there’s gotta be something to it, right? The more I learn, the more questions I have. Look.” He opens his journal to show me what’s inside. The page is full of words and sketches and musings. I read through a few of them and look at others. Like—If there is a God, why can’t we see Him? And Why does He allow bad things to happen to good people? Why is there suffering? Some of the same questions I’ve had.

  “Is your family religious?” I ask, a little curious now.

  “Yeah. They’re mainly Christian, so they think it’s a little weird what I’m doing. My dad’s afraid that I’m going to shave my head and go be a monk or something.”

  “Why?”

  “Right now I’m studying Buddhism.”

  “Oh.”

  He sighs. “You think I’m crazy, right?”

  “I don’t know you enough to make that judgment, but I’m currently leaning toward eccentric.”

 
He chuckles. “Fair enough. I’ll take that over crazy.”

  So maybe he isn’t a weirdo. Maybe he’s just a guy searching for meaning.

  “Okay, so tell me, what do Buddhists believe?” I’m genuinely curious now—about Buddhism, and about Joseph. I’ve never met anyone who studied so many religions. Most of my friends believe what they do because it’s what their parents believe in. It’s more tradition than belief, more of an obligation than an inspired choice. Or else they’re like me and somewhere in the middle, undecided.

  “Well, I’m still discovering,” he says, “but the First Truth is that all life is suffering.”

  “Yeah, I think I got that memo.”

  Joseph gives me a small smile.

  “Do they explain why?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Why is a futile question, because there is no answer to that. It’s about accepting the First Truth so that we can move forward and live each day one at a time.”

  I think I understand him, so I nod. “So, being in the moment and staying positive?”

  “Sort of. It’s more like practicing mindfulness, searching for wisdom, approaching all life with compassion and ultimately freeing oneself from the burden of a life of suffering.”

  “Well, it seems like the only way to do that would be to die,” I say dryly.

  If Joseph is put off by my sarcasm, he doesn’t show it. “There is a dying to self that’s involved.” He shows me a diagram in his book. “Again, I’m just learning about the Eightfold Path and Nirvana and all of it, but I’m really digging some of it. I even started wearing this.” He fingers the band on his wrist. I read the word Mindfulness. “It’s to remind me to focus my thoughts and to try to understand the intention behind my actions.”

  Suddenly there’s a loud noise outside in the hall. I duck down behind the chair, covering my head with my arms. My heart rate and breathing quicken. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I see the body parts, the dust hovering in the air. I hear a person screaming.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” a voice says. “I think someone just dropped something.”

  I open my eyes, and a body is kneeling next to me. Joseph.

  “Just breathe,” he says.

  I’m confused about where I am, but I try to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. It takes a few moments, but then I look around and see that I’m in the hospital chapel. When I realize I just freaked out over some random noise, I feel my face burn with embarrassment.

  Slowly, I stand up. My breathing isn’t as ragged, but my heart’s still racing. For a moment, it felt like I was back at the farmers market all over again.

  “Maybe I should get someone. A nurse. Or—”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Joseph stands there looking at me and then looking at the entrance. He seems unsure of what to do.

  I take a deep breath. “Really, I’m okay.”

  I walk on shaky legs past him without saying good-bye, and I don’t stop until I’m out of the hospital and around a corner, where I lean over and throw up. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and try to muster enough strength to walk all the way back to my mom’s room, where she remains unchanged, where there are more questions than answers and where all life is truly suffering.

  1993

  Winter

  Sarajevo

  BiH

  NADJA PLACED THE black headphones that had been hanging around her neck over her ears. She pressed Play on the Walkman in her pocket, even though the batteries had died a long time ago. The music still filled her head, a memorized track on loop. She made her back as flat as she could against the side of the mangled building, knowing, bullet-hole-ridden or not, it would offer her the most protection. The part of Sarajevo she was in had been cleared of most anything else. All of the trees that used to line the streets had been cut down and used for firewood. Most of the stumps dug up as well as the siege continued deep into winter without electricity. A couple of cars with their insides removed sat parked nearby. Their seats, engines, anything that could be considered useful stolen.

  Nadja smelled the snow in the air, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, only her breath as it pushed through the thick wool scarf that covered her face.

  She set down the two plastic jugs of water she’d been carrying. Dalila sauntered over from the building across the street, out in the open, like she was impervious to the violence surrounding the area, surrounding them.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Nadja said when Dalila got to her side.

  “Come on, they’ve been quiet all morning. Look.” Dalila stepped out from the cover of the building. She walked around. She shook her skinny booty in the direction of the Serb front line.

  A woman on the third floor of the apartment building poked her head around the opaque plastic covering of a window, like she was peeking out of a shower. “Crazy girl. You want to get killed!”

  Dalila yelled, “Good morning!”

  The woman waved her away, but Dalila just kept dancing. The woman’s head disappeared behind the plastic.

  “Dalila,” Nadja whispered.

  “Fine.” She stomped back over to where Nadja hid. “Let’s go.”

  They bent and picked up the water jugs and walked close to the perimeter of the buildings up the steep hill toward their house. When it was still quiet, they moved toward the middle of the street. As they climbed past a small red Fiat with the top crushed and a door missing, the sound of gunfire pop-pop-popped through the air. The girls ducked and darted back to the cover of the doorway of the nearest building. The water sloshed and spilled from their jugs. Nadja’s heart raced as she noted the bullet holes scarring the sides of the red wooden door like pockmarks.

  “Bastards!” Dalila yelled.

  A spray of bullets answered her. Their sharp sound echoing off the gray buildings.

  Nadja sank to the ground and closed her eyes. Her muscles burned. Her shoulders were sore from carrying the water so many blocks already. She rubbed her hands together. They were freezing even through the gloves. She stuck them underneath her armpits to try and warm them.

  Dalila sat down too. “Bastards,” she said again. This time in a whisper.

  Nadja pointed. Across the street, the warning Pazi Snajper—“Danger Sniper”—had been painted in jagged black lines on the side of a building that had had its roof blown off. Dalila laughed and then Nadja laughed and then they were laughing so hard, Nadja’s side hurt. Even though her stomach was constantly hurting from hunger, this hurt felt good.

  It triggered a memory of her and Uma laughing and running. They were ten and had just pulled a prank on Ivan, a boy in their class. They hid behind the school, huddled together in the grass, trying not to laugh, but laughing all the more because Ivan’s face was so mad when he opened the bag and saw nothing was inside of it. Nadja almost smiled at the memory.

  Uma.

  The last time Nadja had seen her best friend was that night in her house. What had happened to Uma? Did she get out of Višegrad? Nadja buried the image, the thoughts, like she did all the others that came to her. The names. The faces. The questions and worries. Easier to stuff them all into a tiny space deep within her than to let them out to consume her.

  Over the months since arriving in Sarajevo, Nadja had transformed herself. Her body was now built of boxes, steel ones, locked and heavy; she was surprised she could walk and not sink into the ground. Not be swept away from the memories of that night, with the boxes labeled BRIDGE and DRINA. The keys she kept hidden from her own self.

  This was how she survived, how she would survive.

  Nadja touched Dalila’s knee where the rip in her jeans was getting wider. Dalila looked so small in her black coat and red scarf pulled tight around her. Her narrow face somehow sharper in the gray beanie. Small strands of dark brown hair peeked out of the sides. Nadja wondered what Dalila had looked lik
e before the war. Dalila said she’d had a great figure. She said she would walk the street and make the boys’ heads turn. Now Nadja noted Dalila could barely fill out her bras. How must Dalila see her? Was she as skinny?

  “Ready?” Dalila asked.

  “Yep.”

  They picked up the jugs and darted from doorway to doorway. Every few minutes, the gunfire would start. Sometimes Nadja saw it ripping up the asphalt in tiny dust clouds. But either the snipers couldn’t see them or they were just playing. Nadja thought it was the latter. If they really wanted it to, no matter how fast they ran or where they sheltered, the bullet would find its mark.

  As Nadja and Dalila made their way up the road, there was a man in a thick brown coat and a woman in a blue one doing the same—coming down on the same side of the road. The girls waited in one doorway, a beautiful brown wooden one with two round iron knockers, while the man and woman stood in the next doorway up ahead. They would have to go one at a time. The man said something to the girls, but they couldn’t hear him over the gunfire.

  “You go first,” Dalila said.

  Nadja started running, but so did the man and woman. Somehow there had been a breakdown in communicating who would go first. When they met in the middle, Nadja had to swerve to avoid knocking into them. The bullets whizzed, and one of the water jugs she was carrying shattered. Nadja stopped and tried to save some of the water, but it emptied quickly, running back down the hill they’d just climbed.

  She turned toward where she thought the sniper might be hiding. She pulled down her scarf, freeing her mouth. “Do you know how long it took me to get that? How many hours I stood in line? Just do it already!” She stood there defiant, not even noticing Dalila already running toward her.

  “Nadja, move.” Dalila shoved her with her shoulder because her hands were full with the jugs.

  In the next doorway, Nadja tried not to cry. She thought about going back to the water station to try and get more, but she didn’t have anything to put it in and she knew by now that the little water there would already be disbursed. They had stood for three hours waiting and had been at the end of the line when they’d received their water ration.