by Ava Homa
Alan ran to his father and held on to his leg. “Baba gian, Baba!” he cried. It took a couple of moments before his father noticed him and hugged him close.
“We will leave Iraq. We won’t live here any longer.” A wild urge to be anywhere but here tugged at Alan’s gut too.
Some stoic women and a few elderly men tearlessly buried the unidentifiable remains. They laid down uncarved stones in row after row and asked Alan and the other children to pick wildflowers and pink roses from the slope of the hill, placing them in rows too.
Alan sucked on the blood dripping down his index finger, torn by the rose thorns.
“Alan!” cried a woman whom Alan did not recognize. Three other boys turned when she called; one ran to her. Alan was a popular name, meaning “flag bearer.” It testified to what was expected of the children of a stateless nation, who had to fight against nonexistence.
PART III
LEILA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For a while, all was dark stillness. I floated in nothingness, as if I were weightless in a hollow drum.
But I was alive.
My wild, raw desire to survive—even on the outskirts of life—had scared Death away.
“Twenty-four-year-old female. Motor vehicle accident. Possible concussion. Pelvic fractures. No sign of internal bleeding. Vitals are stable, blood pressure one-thirty-seven over ninety.” The words, spoken by a terse, disembodied voice, caused my eyes to pop open, and I was momentarily blinded by the fluorescent light above me.
I was alive. And I was in pain.
I couldn’t move my neck, which had been stabilized in a brace, so I cast my eyes around wildly, suddenly alert to the commotion before me.
“On three,” someone said, and after the count I was lifted from the stretcher onto a gurney. I didn’t recognize the howl that ripped through my throat as I was jostled in the transfer. I caught a faint whiff of bleach coming up from the crisp sheets beneath me, then something raw and primal—vomit? Urine? Blood? My own? I cried, my sobs wracking my shattered body, devastated by my defeat.
I had failed even at dying.
Women in scrubs leaned over me and scissored off my clothes, including my panties, which, they pointed out, had a few drops of blood on them. Someone had drawn a curtain around my bed, but within the fabric walls I was fully exposed to these strangers. I cried and screamed, pulling at the bedsheet beneath me to cover myself. Every atom in my body ached. How was this much pain possible?
The nurses dressed me in a long, loose, cotton hospital gown, fastened in the back, and they covered my hair and tied the headscarf tight. A few unruly strands had caught in the neck brace. I cursed them at each step, profanity I had never before realized I was capable of uttering in an endless stream. Despite my curses, they continued their methodical work, checking my vitals, attaching me to monitors that only added to the chaos with their metronomic beeps. A lanky young man with tired eyes—a resident, perhaps—pulled back the curtain and entered the bay.
“You’ve been in an accident, Miss”—he checked the clipboard—“Saman. Can you tell me where you are hurting?” His voice was gentle, but even that couldn’t calm me.
“Everywhere. Everywhere,” I said as I wept. With each gasp, a pain pressed on my chest, like an invisible hand squeezing my lungs in its vice. The doctor placed a soothing hand on my shoulder, a kindness despite its illicitness.
“Let’s get her to CT.”
The louder my shrieks echoed through the hallway, the faster they wheeled me past massive photographs of the past and present supreme leaders, Khomeini and Khamenei. The edges of my vision went fuzzy.
By the time I was admitted and transferred to a private room for observation, Mama had arrived. She paced the small room in a hysterical circuit like a caged animal, a tasbih—prayer beads—dangling from her hand, her entreaties to God loud enough for everyone on the intensive care floor to hear. She’d pulled her white headscarf forward, almost covering her forehead, as if that would make her disappear.
“Leila!” she screamed when the attendant wheeled me in. Her knees gave out as she rushed toward me and grasped the metal railing of my bed. She placed her head on it and sobbed with such a force that my bed shook.
“Stop. I can’t take it right now. Please, Mama, stop.” My tongue felt thick in my throat.
She reached a hand up to stroke my forehead, but her whisper was anything but comforting. “Leila, they said your underwear had bloodstains on it.”
I forced my eyelids open enough to give her a withering look.
“Don’t tell your father,” she told me.
“Why would I?” I hissed, partly out of rage, partly pain. “If he knows, he’ll send me to hell before God does.”
Fortunately, the head physician came in soon after to update my mother. “Madam,” he said, barely looking up from the chart. “We’ve assessed your daughter for injuries she may have sustained from being hit by the car. Imaging shows five non-displaced pelvic fractures and two minor fractures on the third left rib.”
I placed a hand on my aching chest. “Right above my heart.”
“You were very lucky, Miss Saman,” he continued. He turned back to my mother. “There don’t seem to be any internal injuries to her organs, no splintering. But we need to stabilize the pelvis, and we’d prefer to do it immediately. We’re just awaiting her blood work results, and then we’ll prep her for surgery.”
“What’re you going to do to me?” I asked.
“We’re going to place your legs in skeletal traction to immobilize the fractures. The surgery is to implant the pins—”
“Pins?” I interrupted. Mama’s face had gone white.
“Yes, to keep your bone fragments in the right positions. It’ll also provide some pain relief. I imagine you’re in quite a bit of discomfort. I’ll check on you later.”
A bit of discomfort—ha! The physician made to leave, but Mama followed him to the door, whispering something anxiously and grasping the tasbih.
“Thank God.” She raised her palms in the air. When the doctor closed the door behind him, she whispered to me that I was intact. “You have not lost your virginity, technically or otherwise. Nothing sharp went in there, did it?”
“Is that really all you’re worried about? You of all people?”
“Not anymore. The blood on your underwear could be from the shock or some injured tissue, but . . .” She lowered her voice again. “The doctor says you may not be able to give birth naturally. Caesarean might still be an option, though. We’ll have to see how your recovery goes.”
“Can someone tell me if I’ll be able to walk again?” I screamed, and choked on tears once again.
On the wall hung a poster of a pretty woman in hijab holding her index finger to her mouth, urging silence.
Mama kept pacing the small room, murmuring. Her concern for me waning, she finally asked the question that must have been nagging at the back of her mind all along.
“Did you show up at Grandma’s earlier?”
I shook my head, not in denial, but in despair. Protecting her secret mattered more to her than my broken bones.
I held her gaze, noting the conflicting emotions that warred for dominance on her aging face: worry, weariness, guilt, concern, shame, anguish. Mama mashed her mouth into a thin line, saying nothing else to me until the nurses returned to prep me for surgery.
Two orderlies wheeled me to the operating room. With its cavernous ceiling and reverent quiet, the operating room reminded me of a mosque, where I felt small and insignificant. But instead of religious articles, from the walls dangled many devices for cutting. The goal in both places, without so much as asking me, was the removal of that which might corrupt. Men and women in surgical masks and plastic gloves surrounded me.
“Don’t worry, miss, I won’t look at you,” said a bespectacled male nurse, standing at the bottom of the bed and raising my leg while another injected a local anesthetic. I was painfully aware that I wasn’t weari
ng any underwear. Three needles in each knee, and he kept leering. In my head, I clawed his eyes out of their sockets. Finally the woman who held my arms asked the male nurse to switch spots with her, claiming she couldn’t stop my squirming. She winked at me. I sighed in relief. My knees grew numb.
I struggled against four strong nurses when the ogling man turned on an electric drill and handed it to the surgeon.
“Sorry. Possible concussion. We can’t give you more than a nerve block.” A short curtain blocked my view, separated me from my body.
“No! You can’t drill holes in me!” I shrieked. “Get away from me. Just let me die.”
I was awake, aware, and loud when the sharp metal bore into my bone.
“Don’t you know that all the expensive new cars have ABS brakes, Leila?” My brother’s gently mocking voice spoke out of darkness the next morning. “And the drivers love those cars too much to drive them carelessly.”
Weights were hanging from my footboard. Three kilos each. They were connected like a pulley system to the rods that had been inserted in my knees. Behind Chia, the curtains were drawn, but a little light still slanted beneath in the strip at the bottom of the window. I could see the IV drip dispensing colorless liquid into my vein. Mercifully, Mama was nowhere to be seen. “Why did they do this to me?”
Someone had removed my brace from my unsnappable neck. “Pelvis and rib fractures heal on their own, apparently, so you won’t need a cast for them. These weights make sure your legs won’t shrink while you heal,” Chia said.
“They drilled holes into my knees.” I pushed up my gown so he could see.
“I’m sorry. It’s necessary, though. To prevent future limping.”
With a hand I inspected the bones of my aching face. “Would you get me a mirror?”
“Don’t worry. Your face is okay.” He sat on a plastic chair by my bed, his hazel eyes bright and affectionate, but worry tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So, sis, were you inspired by that Bollywood railway drama where a handsome man jumps before the train and saves the beautiful woman at the last second?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The driver of the car claims . . .” Chia paused and scratched his ear. “The accident? Was it, umm . . .” He was struggling for a word. He finally finished, “. . . organic?”
I rolled my eyes, but even the smallest gesture made me wince. “No, I used pesticides.”
Chia laughed, and suddenly his face changed, colored with relief. “I knew you wouldn’t do such a thing on purpose.”
“Isn’t free will a myth?” I responded.
His expression became mournful and pensive. My brother liked to argue that all humans would make the exact same decisions over again if time could be turned back and the conditions were precisely the same, that their decisions were made in split seconds and that logic did not play as large a role in our actions as we liked to believe.
My gaze drifted over the jasmine and white roses that Chia had placed haphazardly on the windowsill. “You got those for me?”
He nodded. “I should let you rest.”
“Painkillers?” I pointed to a box on a small cart in the corner of the tiny room.
Chia read the label and nodded. “Yes, but they’ve already injected morphine into your IV. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
I blinked through the fog of morphine and scratched lightly at my arms. “Will they bring me a wheelchair?”
How was I supposed to go to the bathroom? Or shower? I recoiled at the thought of Mama washing my privates. I willed away the vision of her client’s blissful expression.
“Why did you do this to us?” I heard my father’s voice coming down the hall before he burst into the room.
“What kind of girl would be alone on the mountain so late in the day?” Baba pressed his fist into his palm. “Who were you with?” His expression, a combination of fury and disappointment, was the only familiar part of the nightmarish day.
My brother came back with two glasses of water, which he placed on the cart by my bed. “Baba, not now.”
“What trouble could you possibly have gotten yourself into that the only way out was . . . was this?” Baba pointed at the weights accusingly.
Of all the things he had done to me, this question stung the most. He didn’t ask, “What happened to you?” or “Who did this to you?”
“How could you say such a thing?” Chia raised his voice.
“The driver and his four passengers say that you leaped in front of their car like a gazelle.” Baba raised his elbow in the air like he was ready to jab someone.
“They drilled holes in my knees,” I mumbled.
“We should believe Leila,” Chia challenged him, their chests inches apart.
“You defend someone who’s disgraced you and me?” Baba shoved Chia against the wall, tipping the cart, and the pills fell and rolled along the floor.
I gasped and jolted upright, only to be forced back flat by the pain. “Stop it! Where’s Mama?” My words were slightly slurred. Baba released Chia. My father’s rage frightened me more than the drill that had penetrated my bones.
A girl of about six peeked inside the room, pointed at me, and screwed up her face in fear and disgust. A man soon came in behind her, and he too winced at the sight of me before quickly averting his eyes and yanking the girl from the room. Drawn by the commotion, a few more people gathered in the corridor, some in hospital gowns.
“How can I live in this town after this?” Baba’s voice broke at the end of his sentence.
People gaped. A murmur rose up. “What has she done?” someone whispered. Baba heard that. We all did.
“You’re renounced,” my father growled, sounding like a wounded bear.
Holding on to the cold bed rails, I pushed myself up. Pain radiated through my knees and hip to my spine.
“Some privacy, for God’s sake.” Chia chased the other people away.
Baba sighed and turned away from us. He had aged in the span of fifteen minutes.
“Baba, be reasonable. Please, sit down.” Chia closed the door and placed his hand on our father’s shoulder.
Baba jerked his head up again.
“Reasonable? After all I’ve been through, what I’ve endured for you two, this is how you repay me?”
My eyes began to well with tears.
“You. You’re as bad as her.” Baba stopped short of renouncing his son, took a step back, and pointed at my brother and me in turn. Chia blanched; his placating words died on his lips. Baba had never looked more betrayed. He turned his back to us, rubbed his face with his sleeve, and left.
“I’m not the one who . . . I didn’t do anything. I swear!” I called after him, my throat too tight.
Chia paced the room, rubbing his left arm where Baba had grabbed him. “You did not actually try to kill yourself, did you, Leila?” He gazed at me searchingly, his face serious.
I couldn’t look him in the eye. I wanted to say no, but that was a lie. So I opened my mouth to say yes, but that was also a lie. Who was the girl who ran down the hill? It was and wasn’t me. The IV needle pricked my arm again as I squirmed away from the question.
“I never imagined it would come to this . . . I’m so sorry to have left you behind, gian. I’ll find an apartment for us to rent by the time you’re discharged. We won’t stay in this town anymore. But I do want one thing from you. It’s very important that you think about my question. Whatever the truth is, I want to know. Does that sound fair? If you can’t answer me now, then write it all down.”
I stared blankly at him.
“Here. Make sure nobody sees this.” Chia kissed my forehead and slid a notebook under my pillow. “And stop sniffling. It’s gross.”
I smiled weakly and stuck my tongue out.
Chia held his thumbs to his ears, made antlers of his hands, and crossed his eyes like I used to. We both broke down into giggles, which made my chin ache again.
“What’s happened to my face?”
“Nothing.”
“How can you expect me to tell the truth when you won’t extend me the same courtesy?”
He sighed. “It’s pretty bruised, but that’ll fade. I asked the nurses. They’ll bring you an icepack. And your eyes . . .”
“What about my eyes?”
“The capillaries are broken from the impact. They’re bloodshot; there’s almost no white around your pupils at all.” He must have seen my face, because he rushed to add: “Again, nothing to be worried about. Your vision is fine. The redness will go away with time—and eye drops. But that’s the reason the people in the hall reacted like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll bring you a mirror tomorrow. Don’t forget to put ice on your face and rest. Please write. I expect a filled diary as a housewarming gift for our new apartment.”
He left, and I drifted into a medicated sleep.
Later, when I was all alone in the little room, I shuffled through the pages of my brother’s diary, one-third of it full of the stories about his village students.
Students held hands, moving in a circle, singing. The news of Shirin’s death passed around like common gossip. She used to be a student in this school. Three months pregnant, she had set herself and her unborn child on fire. I walked to her empty seat and ran my fingers over the phrase carved into the desk that used to be hers: “I wish I were not born a woman.”
“Leila’s story,” Chia had written on the blank page following his last entry. I inhaled the pulpy scent of the cheap paper and ran my fingers over his slanted handwriting.
Over the next week, in the lucid hours between the doses of pain medicine, I grabbed the pen slotted through the spiral of the notebook and wrote:
I don’t like to think about that moment. But when I have to, when the images crowd in, I tell myself it was an accident. At times I believe it. Other times a ghostly silhouette frowns, shaking its head in reproach.
During the second week, in the long hours between nurses checking in, I again picked up the pen, pushed aside the hair that fell across my sweaty face, and wrote.