The sound of car horns filled the air. Zain was in the middle of traffic lanes, haphazardly walking in circles, yelling at the drivers, dangerously close to hitting the hood of the Mercedes that was changing lanes. He leaned into the driver’s window of a slowing car. “Yo man, you got a cigarette?” The car sped off. Under the eighty-degree heat of the California sun, Zain was wearing a black wool hat pulled down over his eyes. His Matrix-style long black jacket covered his barely buttoned shirt, his navel peaking out as he walked. Playing with a half-smoked, unlit cigarette, he reached out to the next car speeding past him. “No cigarettes, huh? Okay. How about a light, then?”
I dropped my purse and followed Hadi and Iman into traffic. In the weeks since his release, Zain had been cycling between belligerence, ecstatic happiness, extreme crying spells, and deep paranoia. Now he was going to die in traffic before we got a chance to visit the Iranian psychologist we had arranged to see.
I sidestepped the fender of a Hummer that Zain was about to pound with his fist, and my other brothers and I pulled him away from oncoming traffic and dragged him to the curb and then into the building to the doctor’s office.
Talking nonsense, Zain didn’t know where he was or what day it was. Now a practicing clinical psychologist, I tried to assess what I was seeing. Mania? Drugs? Both? Psychosis? Schizophrenia? Drug-induced mood disorder? Was he always bipolar and we hadn’t noticed or was this alcohol? I didn’t know. What I knew was that this was the worst I had ever seen Zain, and in some ways, I was glad. I knew somehow that we were getting close to the end, and that maybe we had finally scraped rock bottom and things would finally look up after this. At least now, there was no denying he was in serious trouble – not by my parents, not by Zain, and not by the psychiatric hospital that clearly released him way too soon.
The focus of the session became Zain’s drug-induced psychological problems, his need for medication, and the recognition that the family had to help him, but in very different ways than before.
We didn’t hospitalize Zain again; we knew he would be out in a day again, and more traumatized than the last time. The next day after the session, Zain’s girlfriend kicked him out, and we all decided to be united and not give him shelter, a job, or a car. His most reliable ally, Maman, refused to allow Zain to sleep on the couch, and instead, insisted he go to a sober living facility. Maman told Zain he had no choice, and that he must go there if he wanted her in his life.
The intervention that day was the beginning of thousands of dollars spent on Iranian psychologists and psychiatrists. And, with Maman and Baba attending groups where they were learning about bipolar moods and alcoholism, the Save Zain Club embarked on a new chapter. My parents were beginning to understand that Zain needed professional help.
Maman and Baba
“Where are you going this early?” Maman was putting the cardamom in the tea as she stood by the samovar ready to prepare the teacups. “You’re rushing me. The sangak isn’t toasted yet.”
Baba had been irritable all morning, picking on her, demanding, moving pots and pans in the kitchen. “I don’t want breakfast. I’m in a rush, I have to go.“ Maman put the half-toasted sangak bread in front of Baba at the table. “Sit down and settle. What’s going on? You were on the phone until morning prayers talking to Zain. I could hear you talking through the garage door. Screaming. I know something’s going on. Just tell me.” Maman put her hand on Baba’s shoulder as she sat next to him.
Baba took a bite of the sangak and stared at the bread in his hand. “He wants out. He was crying.”
“Out? Why didn’t he tell me? He promised me he would stay for six weeks.” Maman was frowning. “I paid $2,500 for that place.” She already regretted having said that. When Zain had complained about the “dictator” program director at the sober living house, Maman had called her Iranian friends from the group, found him a different sober living home, and moved him there.
Baba pushed his chair out with his legs. “Are you crazy? You paid $2,500 for this new place? For him to sleep in a disgusting drug-infested house? Zain says they’re doing drugs there.” Baba pointed a finger at Maman’s face. “Why don’t you consult me? Where did you get that kind of money?”
“Stop yelling.” Maman tugged at Baba to sit. “He promised me he would stay there.” Maman whispered to herself over Baba’s mumblings as she walked back to the samovar. “You refused to come back to the family group, Haji. How was I to consult you when I can’t talk to you without your screaming and yelling?” Maman refreshed her tea with more hot water. “You yell at him all the time. You criticize him. You don’t listen to him.” Maman readjusted the breadbasket. “How can we talk to you?” After taking a breath, Maman found her voice again. “He’s getting help for the first time in his life. Don’t go ruining this, Haji. I don’t want him out. I can’t take this anymore.”
“You think this is working?” Baba now walked toward the samovar. “If it’s working, how come he’s begging me to go get him? And what happens to our Aberoo – our reputation will be ruined after this. I’m going to get him out of there.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Maman had never given Baba an order before.
Baba picked up a piece of bread. “He says he’ll leave if I come or not.”
Across town in the sober living house, Zain was looking at his life with sober eyes. He saw clearly the mess he had created – his credit, his finances, his relationships, and his estrangement from his most prized gift, his daughter. Everyone was wrong. Life without liquor was harsher than he had feared. It was easier to drink. He had to get out.
“Don’t get him. Haji, I’m old, I just can’t do this for him anymore. He needs to get his life in order. I have nothing left to give.” Maman pushed the crystal Persian teacup toward Baba.
“You know I don’t like tea in the morning.” Baba looked up at her, his voice a whisper.
“I know. But you do like toasted sangak bread and feta cheese.” Maman smiled at him. She began to place chunks of feta on the sangak, and they ate breakfast together in silence.
Baba didn’t bail out Zain. Not that day.
But the next day, Baba’s voice was barely audible as he whispered to Maman at the dining room table. “Zain is out of that place.”
The plate in Maman’s left hand slipped onto the counter. “Chi? What did you say, Haji?”
“He begged me, zan. I mean he had been crying to me for days. He said people there were doing drugs and he wanted to stay clean, so I got him out.”
Zain had finally found the right approach with Baba. Actually, it was an easy sell. Baba’s restraint had limited strength against Zain’s claims that he now understood his illness, and that for one final time he had repented and turned to God for his sobriety. Baba had been on the freeway in less than an hour.
“He’ll be fine. He’s going to do it this time. I believe him,” Baba said, the hum of the refrigerator and the call of Maman’s doves on the lawn now making the only sound.
“He hasn’t even been there a few weeks. You’re not helping him. Where is he going to go? Who will help him? You know how hard I worked to get him in there?” Maman wasn’t taking a breath. She towered over the table and placed one hand on her chest. “I can’t do this anymore. Not with him. And not with you.”
Baba said nothing. He knew when he had to sit for it.
“You do things without asking me. You sold the house, you started businesses without my knowing, you…”
Baba painted a soft smile on his face even though his skin was tight. He had been through this list of his past errors many times before.
“He’ll be all right. Hadi is going to take care of him. He’s going to work with him and get his life in order. Don’t worry, he’ll be okay.”
Maman didn’t realize she was screaming. “I’ve been married to you since I was fourteen. And in all of my life, you haven’t listened to me.” Maman’s voice was suddenly a whisper. “If you had listened to me years ago, things wouldn’
t be this way now.”
“I had to make the choice. He was killing me with his crying. And, zan, we have a reputation. Those places are filled with Iranians that know us.” Baba broke eye contact with her. “And I can’t see him imprisoned like that. You understand?”
He stood as he finished speaking. Maman suddenly looked larger than him. She pointed at Baba, her voice shaking. “Your reputation! He’s going to die, Haji. I don’t care about our reputation. You hear me? You’re killing him like you killed Abdollah!”
The house stopped breathing. A deadly silence invaded. Finally, she had said it aloud.
Baba slowly moved to his recliner and began a prayer. He had things to say, to God.
ACCIDENTS
Speeding at eighty miles an hour, the Porsche scraped against the freeway rail, shooting sparks of gold into the brick sky. The bang that would bring the car to a halt sounded like a bomb exploding. The tires of the twelve-wheeler truck sent off clouds of thick black smoke into the air as it collided into the back of the Porsche before a third vehicle joined in. The right front tire of Zain’s car popped, deploying the airbags and knocking the girl in the passenger seat unconscious.
Zain didn’t remember how he left the dance club or that he drove the car. What he would remember was his heart pumping rhythmically to the pounding techno music, his blood drowning in vodka, cocaine, ecstasy, Lithium, and Ambien. He wouldn’t remember being blinded by the headlights of the truck in his rearview mirror. He didn’t see the metal bumper of the twelve-wheeler squash the Porsche and stop just inches from his headrest.
Ten hours later, when Zain put his hand on his stomach, wanting to vomit, he tried to pull himself up, but a sharp stab of pain collapsed his arm.
“Don’t get up, sir. There’s nothing in your stomach that you can throw up now.”
“What happened?” Zain managed to mumble, staring at the nurse’s blue scrubs.
“What happened, sir, is that you survived death.” The nurse put away the scissors as she finished taping his arm with fresh bandages.
“What?” Zain blinked. Pain gripped his stomach again.
“We’ve pumped your stomach. It’s going to hurt for a while.” She tucked his arm – being pumped with IV liquid – under the blanket. Leaning toward him, she whispered, as if she knew his ears hurt. “You are very lucky to be alive.”
“Where am I?”
“ICU. You’ve been in a coma for nine hours.”
“What?”
“You were in a car accident. A really, really bad one.” The nurse shook her head. ”That accident saved your life. It was your miracle.”
She smiled, and Zain noticed her perfectly aligned white teeth. He focused on her hazel eyes. Maybe she was his angel? “Miracle?” Zain squinted as the pain ran climbed down his spine.
Putting her hand on the sheet over his hand, she sighed. “You passed out while you were driving, my dear.” Her voice was louder now. “If the twelve-wheeler hadn’t plowed into you and you had been passed out in your car for more than twenty minutes, you would have been dead of a drug overdose.”
“Overdose?” Zain’s vision was suddenly blurry. The face of his nurse was becoming unclear. Everything was spinning.
Before the nurse slid the curtain closed, she looked back at Zain. “You have an angel looking out for you. You’re a lucky man.” She opened the door to leave. “Make this count!”
Zain closed his eyes. He pressed his eyes tighter, gripped the sheet in his hand as he tried to swallow, his throat burning.
It had been six months since Baba had driven Zain away from the treatment center. Although here in the hospital, Zain couldn’t remember how his body had become battered and bruised. He could remember the day Baba set him free, he and Baba laughing and joking as they sailed down the freeway toward Orange County.
Suddenly, Zain remembered a techno beat and something about parties straight through for four nights. Again, he felt bile rise up, scorching the soft lining of his throat. Had anyone died?
It turned out Maman was right. Zain had stopped drinking but he had been doing coke and ecstasy instead.
Zain heard the swish of the curtains opening and forced himself to speak. “Can you ice my body? It hurts so much.” A little drool hung on the corner of his mouth.
“You’re withdrawing. I’ll give you something, but I can’t give you too much, okay?” As the nurse turned to leave, she whispered, “The police are here to talk to you.”
Hadi wouldn’t tell me who was going to be there at his house. But I hoped Zain wouldn’t be among the guests. Since Baba had helped Zain leave the substance abuse facility, I had refused to see my brother. It was too painful and I did not want to be roped into enabling him anymore. My new business had kept me in the office round the clock, distracting me from my family drama.
As I walked in, I saw Zain in the living room, sprawled out with two pillows under his legs on the couch. His arm was in a cast connected to a chest brace. His head was wrapped in bandages glued together with dried blood. The visible white of one eye was the only thing not purple and blue. He was swollen and the fat in his face was unnoticeable under all the bruising. I ran toward him and knelt on the carpet. “Zain. Oh, dear God! What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
I leaned over and gently put my hand on his swollen hand. Even his fingers were bruised.
He didn’t move. Vicodin and other painkillers cluttered the coffee table.
“He can’t hear you, honey.” I jumped as Baba put his hand on my shoulder. “But he’ll be all right. He was in a car accident.” Baba pulled me to my feet. “He’s okay now. No one died.”
I was sick to my stomach, the ground beneath me spinning.
“I’m going to tell Maman you arrived.” Baba made a quick exit.
I wanted to scream. I wanted the world to know how crazy this was. How crazy I felt being there, this last attempt to save my brother’s life had done nothing? He was broken, bruised, and a bloody mess lying on the couch in front of me and there was nothing I could do about any of it – I hated being so helpless. Although I had withdrawn from the battle, I had been waiting for the phone call. It was inevitable. Until we dealt with the root of our problems, they weren’t going to go away.
Despite the thousands of dollars of therapy and treatment, there had been no real discussion of Abdollah or the demons and old patterns from the past that haunted Zain and kept my parents from enabling him. The focus had been on pathology and substance abuse, not trauma. And now another brother had almost died.
Zain’s rock bottom arrived at a deep cost. In the hospital, the police had given him his second DUI. After he recovered physically from the accident, without his family willing to enable him, he saw the string of unsuccessful marriages, lost jobs, debt, legal problems, and homelessness. He was out of ideas. As soon as he recovered physically, he fled to the land of opportunity: Dubai. Rather than face the present, Zain’s solution – just as it had been when he was a kid – was to start over.
And soon, without any choice, the rest of us had to as well.
THE FALL
Practically tasting the sweet coffee Shanna used to prepare for me every morning, I switched the lights on in the conference room. The laughter of two dozen kids roaming my facility, the tick-tock of the metronome as a part of the cognitive training procedures, the encouragement of trainers saying, “Come on. You can do it,” was replaced by silence today. The phone didn’t ring and the smell of fresh coffee was gone from the hallway. Fresh flowers didn’t welcome me on the reception table. It was all gone – only memories reminding me of what my business once felt like.
My steep rise to the top was followed by a great fall. The economy shook my business in the last quarter of 2007, and soon dragged me and the Golden State into a deep recession.
When the loud knock shook my tears away, I knew who it was before I opened the door. Baba walked into the office soaked from the rain, bringing with him the comfort of home. He was
holding a blue trash bag over his head. Shaking a spray of water from it, he smiled. “Salaam, azizam.”
A stack of books slid off the desk, slamming against the floor. I tried to meet his smile, but I didn’t want Baba to see my sadness. He glanced at the thousands of files on the desk, the psychological testing kits on the chair, and the books on marketing and business.
“You shouldn’t be here, Baba. You just got out of the hospital. That’s a doctor’s order.” After a two-day ordeal the previous week, the whole family had finally left the emergency room with Baba and an IV drip. As I had helped him into the car, Baba had squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “Thank you for being at the hospital, dokhtaram. I’m sorry I’ve become a burden to you.”
After Baba’s incident with cellulitis and sepsis at the UCLA hospital and the Mecca trip that followed, I had taken over as his medical care coordinator. With all the losses, tension, and stress in our family, it was no surprise that our parents would become ill. Years ago in Iran, it had been Maman who had suffered serious physical manifestations of her emotional distress, but, in his sixties now, Baba was the one showing his stress with regular bouts of illness. Baba had gotten older, weaker, more vulnerable, and, that year alone, had been hospitalized eleven times.
Baba had the comfort of his children by his side. In the ICU and around the clock, we were translating, coordinating treatment with nurses and medical personnel, sleeping on the chair beside him throughout the night, never leaving him alone for one moment. Far way too many times, he credited me with saving his life, having watched his diabetes become controlled, his heart blockage caught and treated in time, and his bouts with cellulitis and sepsis less frequent. Beyond that, Baba had seen me return to him in the face of his anger, his rejection, and his severing of all ties with me. He was now more expansive in his view of me, that like him, I was contributing to the community with my work and life, and I was relentless in my love for him. He had grown to trust me entirely. He never talked to me with disrespect, yelled at me, or dismissed me anymore. Never another banishment, and he no longer questioned my choices, even when they related to dating.
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