by Carrie Arcos
The tips of her own fingers tingled.
“Look,” the man said. “If you are in pain, you should tell someone. It is a long wait here, but you need to say something. No one will stop for you. I’m tired now. They’ve got me on good drugs. The best thing about this place. Good drugs.”
“Okay,” Nadja said. “Thanks.”
He didn’t speak to her again, but his eyes were open. She listened to make sure he was still breathing. The man looked at the ceiling. She wondered what he stared at. Maybe it was the yellow water stain that spread from a corner like spilled juice. Or the blocks of broken plaster and cracks.
Nadja started counting again. The screaming began when she got to seventeen. Nadja wanted to tell the woman to be quiet. She decided if she were to get shot, she would not scream. She would not make a sound. She would be like she was now, silent and strong, like a large willow tree near the river.
Others came and told the man it was time. They wheeled his bed into a room. Nadja could see inside because there was no door. Two men in white doctor coats and a nurse swarmed around the man, preparing him for his surgery. She wondered if Amir would come and knock him out.
He didn’t.
A nurse stayed with the man, by his head. She spoke to him while the doctors at his leg turned on a saw. A loud saw. He was awake and talking. They cut off his leg while he was conscious. He didn’t cry out. Nadja tried to close her ears to the sound, but she heard the saw, heard the pitch of its machinery change as it went first through flesh, then tendons, then bone.
She shook in the corner.
I am a willow. I bend in the wind. My roots run deep. I am ancient. I am all living things. I am calm. I am strong. I am a willow.
Nadja couldn’t ignore the feeling any longer. She needed to use the restroom again. Now. She forced herself up and wandered; her fingers trailed along the dirty wall.
She found a bathroom and squatted. Barely any pee trickled out, but it burned again. Terribly.
When she came out, she found another nurse. This one took the temperature of an old man sitting in a chair. Nadja waited until she was done.
“I think I’m dying,” she whispered.
There was no private room to conduct the exam, but the nurse took her behind a sheet that had been raised like a wall dividing patients. Only women were in this room. Nadja explained her symptoms, and the nurse asked her a series of questions. Was Nadja currently sexually active? Blank stare. No. Had she been sexually active in the past?
Nadja let herself slip into memory.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
She reached up to brush the hair from Marko’s eyes. And then they were kissing. She couldn’t stop touching him. He pressed her hard against the stone wall, kissing her like he was starving and she was the only food in days. They slid to the ground. And then it was all earth and flesh. Her legs wrapped around his. She was consumed, and so was he. They burned so bright that when the voices came, they were almost upon them, they jumped up, running away from the river, all the way through the dark, knowing streets, laughing and falling all over themselves because they were in love and alive. They were really alive.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
“No,” she said to the nurse.
When was her last period? She couldn’t remember. Dalila called it another benefit of the war diet.
“You are not dying,” the nurse said.
“I’m not?”
“No, it sounds like you have a urinary tract infection. Normally I would send your urine in for analysis to verify, but now . . .” Her hand gestured to the hallway, where there were too many patients waiting. “I will send you home with some antibiotics that should knock it out.”
The nurse left and returned with two different medications.
“This will help you right now.” She handed Nadja one of the bottles. “Some ibuprofen. And I want you to take one of these as well.” She gave Nadja the second one. “Two times a day for seven days. If you are not feeling better by the third day, come back in. Are your parents here?”
“No.” She told the nurse about Amir and how he worked there.
“Okay, let me see if I can find this Amir. Come with me.”
Nadja followed the nurse to a small room where she was told to wait. She didn’t feel better yet, but she was happy to know that she didn’t have anything too serious. And then she felt guilty because she was happy that she was alive.
In the corner there was a stack of magazines and books. Nadja pulled at one from the middle, almost knocking a bunch to the floor. She smelled the pages, looking for something familiar, but there was only dust. She sneezed. She opened to the first page and ran her fingers along the thin paper. She didn’t read it. She just looked at the pictures.
“Nadja?” Amir bent down close in front of her. His eyes tired from a long shift. She showed him the bottles of pills. He held out his hand for hers and pulled her up. He put his arm around her. She was up to his shoulder. He patted her and told her it would be okay.
He was shorter than her father, so her body didn’t know how to fit against his at first. But the longer they walked, the more she settled. She leaned into him, comforted by his strength. The whole way home he held her up. He did not limp. He did not stumble.
July 9
THE DRIVE HOME is quiet. Gramma and Vovo ride back to the house in their own car. It’s just me and Dad and Benny. But not even Benny speaks. I glance at him in the rearview mirror. He’s staring out the backseat window. Is he okay? He doesn’t seem okay. How could he be? How could anyone? Is he making any more drawings? I wonder if his pictures are his way of dealing. Maybe I should try drawing.
“Zara,” Dad says, “I think maybe you need to talk to someone. A counselor or a therapist, maybe.”
No one said anything when I froze in Mom’s room. When I stood there, paralyzed, against the wall, then fled. Now this.
“I’m fine, Dad. I was just a little freaked out. From your text, I thought . . . I thought she’d be awake awake. I didn’t know she’d be doing that thing with her eyes.”
Dad takes a deep breath in and then out through clenched teeth, making a soft whistling sound. This is something he does when he’s stressed. I get a good side look at him. His face is more lined than I’ve ever seen. He looks ten years older.
“That’s my fault. I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you guys. I’m sorry you even have to experience seeing Mom like this.”
It’s not entirely Dad’s fault, but I don’t say anything.
“How about you, Benny? How did you feel, seeing Mom?”
“Scared,” he says softly.
“It’s okay to be a little scared. But the way her body is beginning to respond is a good sign.”
“Will she be able to talk again?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“And stand and walk and do all the things she used to?”
Dad nods, but he’s not fooling me. He can’t promise any of that.
He can’t promise anything.
“Benny, maybe you and Zara can talk to someone about what you’re thinking and feeling about Mom. I have a friend at the hospital who helps people after they go through trauma.”
“What’s trauma?” Benny says.
“Trauma is when something bad happens to you. And sometimes it can make you feel scared or upset, but sometimes it can also make your body feel bad. It’s good to talk about it so that your body doesn’t carry it like stress.”
“Does trauma give you bad dreams?”
“It can. Are you having bad dreams?”
“No, but Zara is.”
“Is that true?” Dad asks.
“I had one dream,” I lie. “And you would too if you experienced what I—what we—did.”
That shuts him up. We’re almost home when Dad says, “I thi
nk I should make an appointment with Dr. Rivera.”
“I’m already speaking to a chaplain,” I tell him, which is not entirely untrue. Joseph is like a chaplain with all his religious talk.
“Really?” Dad says.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Still, Vanessa is very good,” Dad says. “I’d like you to meet with her. Just once. Then you can decide if you’d like to continue or not.”
“Can we focus on my body instead? My cheek really itches, so does my back,” I say, partly to change the subject. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
In the mirror, I peel back the bandage a bit and see patches of my skin are still red and raw. I scratch all along the sides of my wound, like I’m maneuvering along the borders of a small country.
“That’s good. It means you’re healing. Try not to scratch it, though.”
“Impossible,” I say.
He points to my camera on my lap. “You’re taking pictures again? How does that feel?”
I shrug. “Trying. Weird, I guess. But maybe a little better,” I say.
Dad nods, and we sit in silence the rest of the ride.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
When I go to sleep I have the nightmare again, but there’s more to it this time. I’m at the farmers market. I see Mom walking ahead. There are a bunch of people around me. And suddenly everyone’s screaming. A man crawls, holding his insides together with one hand. I press on toward Mom. I want to reach out and grab her, but I realize I’m holding Benny in my arms. He’s looking up at me with wide eyes. Terrified. Then Mom turns to look at us. There’s blood oozing from her eyes and mouth.
I wake up in a sweat. My heart racing. My hands gripping the sheets.
My door opens and I prepare to attack whoever comes through, but it’s just Benny. He stares at me for a moment before stumbling to my bed. He doesn’t wait for an invitation.
I’m still awake an hour later when I hear the steady rhythm of his sleeping breath next to me.
July 10
IN THE MORNING, Dad suggests that Benny and I stay home. I overhear him telling Gramma and Vovo that he thinks it would be good for me to have a break from the hospital. He’ll call with any updates on Mom’s condition. You know, in the event she miraculously regains her speech, range of motion, normal bodily functions and consciousness.
I don’t bother arguing.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
A little while later, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Hey, how are you doing? let me know when the photo is ready . . .
Joseph. It’s only been a day, dude. But I text him a thumbs-up emoji.
This is Joseph btw
Lol. Got it
I haven’t had the chance to get to the pictures yet.
I tell my grandparents that I’m going to work on some photos. Gramma smiles too widely. Her cheeks puff up like they’re lopsided balloons.
“All right, Zara. Just let us know if you need anything. We’ll be right here. I may take Benny to the park later if you want to come.”
“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”
In my room, I download all my photos to my computer. I pick out the top ten shots of Joseph and Flora and touch them up, though there’s not much to alter. The story their photos tell is clear. They love each other. I text Joseph the three I think are best.
It feels good to be doing something normal for a change. I’ve missed editing photos. I’ve missed creating.
I work on a photo of Christine a bit too. It’s much harder, but I know it’s important to her that she has this memory.
When I’m done with that, I scroll back until the pictures from the day of the bombing stare up at me. The series begins with the ones I took of the fruits and vegetables. I wasn’t ready to look at these when I stumbled across them with Joseph. I don’t know if I’m ready now. But I scan through them, slowly—looking for what? I’m not sure—taking deep breaths as I go.
I think about Mr. Singh and the idea of story, and I wonder if there’s anything in the images that can tell me what’s happening. Is there anything here that lets me know how this story will end? What’s the inciting incident? The drama? Anything to suggest that someone has planted bombs? But there’s nothing sinister I can see that reveals the devastation yet to come.
Where are you, Mr. Bomber? Did you stay to watch? How close were you to me? Did you see my face? How did you choose where to place the bomb? Did you think I’d make a good target?
Most of the photos captured the same images and elements. I study the faces in the background, looking for anything suspicious. Who are the main characters? The vendor who sold us the strawberries smiles just a little left of center. My focus had been on the berries, but he’s also there. What happened to him?
Mom’s side profile as she handles the fruit. There’s also Benny, looking kind of wishful. He’s staring at something in the distance. On the right of the frames are people walking and shopping. It looks like a typical morning at a farmers market.
But then the pictures shift dramatically to the few that I took afterward. All of these photos have a haze to them. The air is full of dust and smoke. I didn’t realize how thick it was. I could use one of these for Mr. Singh’s class. They tell a story for sure. The one that shows the kid crying in the background. Or the other that gives a view of one whole end where the market used to be, but is now empty. There are a few of people mid-run and two bodies on the ground and debris all over. I stare at one, trying to see if there’s anything I can learn.
Then I come to the photo I don’t really want to look at, but I know I have to—the one of my mom’s feet poking out of the wreckage. I pause. Then I zoom in. One yellow shoe. One foot bare.
That’s the one for Mr. Singh’s class. My single-frame story. I mark it to begin editing later.
In the end, I have about thirty photos or so from that morning. I wonder if they would be helpful to the people investigating the bombing. I think of the terrible interview I had with those officers and the card one of them gave me.
Dad said not to talk to them again without his permission, so I’ll ask him about it later. He’ll know what to do with the photos.
I close my laptop. Now what?
I take out Mom’s box from where I’ve stashed it underneath my bed and sift through the items again. The money. The letters. The photos. The comic. The teddy bear. This has become my ritual.
I stare at the photo of Mom with the bridge in the background. What’s the story here?
The girl is out in early gray morning. The river is dark and a little menacing in the background. Maybe something lurks underneath the waters. It’s the setup for a good horror movie.
She’s the focal point of the picture. The bridge and the river are a little blurred around her. Mr. Singh would probably say the blur is good bokeh, a pleasing out-of-focus effect. I turn it over and read the name and date for the hundredth time. Nadja ’92. Love Marko.
I pick up one of the letters. Since it looks like it’s going to be a while before Mom can translate them, if she’s ever able to read and write again, I’ll have to find another way to read them. I search online for a company that offers translation services of documents from Bosnian to English. I scan the letters, find a manila envelope in Dad’s office and put the documents in the mail.
In a few days I’ll have answers, whether I’m ready for them or not.
A text comes in from Audrey.
Get ready
I send her a confused emoji face.
We’re coming to get you.
I pile into the backseat of Natasha’s car next to Audrey, my camera in my lap. Sibyl sits in the front seat. They’ve decided we need to go out and celebrate two things—my mom waking from her coma and Audrey’s last night in town before leaving for he
r dad’s. My friends look beautiful with their leggings and jeans and sleeveless tops and lip gloss and long hair. I feel like I don’t belong, even with Audrey’s help and some makeup.
“Beautiful,” she said when she stepped back to examine her work. But no foundation in the world can cover up the big white bandage on my face. I don’t think I’ll ever feel beautiful again.
Benny waves to me from the doorway of the house. For a moment, I think maybe I should stay with him, but Natasha pulls away from the curb and the windows are down and the wind blows and my hair is flying all around my face and the music is loud and the girls are singing at the top of their lungs, and I can pretend there never was a bomb, there never was a hospital, that my mom is home, waiting for me, so instead I sing too, until my throat is scraped raw.
Downtown Providence is always hopping in the summer. It’s normally a college town during the year, but the summer is when all ages come out to play. There’s restaurant after restaurant. Live music. Most summers I spend a fair amount of time here in the evenings. But now it’s different. I’ve barely been out in public since the attack.
Natasha finds a parking spot, and we get out and just start walking. Sibyl points to a bunch of people dancing to some big band music in the small lot alongside an Italian restaurant. Right out in the open. They look like they’re having so much fun. Like they don’t know that at any second some guy could come along with a bomb and blow them all up.
I try to shake the thoughts out of my head, but they’re stubborn. They stick.
I look over my shoulder, suddenly wary. Clusters of people walk around. Everything seems okay. But is it? I force myself to stay present, to stay in this moment, and then Audrey grabs my hand and pulls me along.
Even before I see the flames burning on the surface of the river that flows through the middle of downtown Providence, I can smell the wood smoke of WaterFire. The flames dotting the river like small torches. My family and I go every year to the first full lighting night, which is usually at the end of May. This year we walked around and got food from one of the trucks. I feel their missing presences lingering now like ghosts.