Unbroken: 13 Stories Starring Disabled Teens

by Anthology

  She didn’t pray hard enough, and thus It hung on like the worst sort of bur—invisible and painful, and unable to even elicit enough compassion because of how frustratingly simple it should be to brush it off, shake out the sheets, splash your face, put on a smile and fake it until you make it, fake it until you want to make it, fake it until you know how to want to make it.

  The fact that they could all see It was, quite often, the worst part. They could see her failures. They could see how little she did, so that this unwanted, unwelcomed guest nestled Its way into her airplane seat, managing to squeeze under the belt and avoid a flight attendant’s potentially raised brow of censure, jostling her forward as the plane rolled down the runway.

  It pressed Its weight down on her lap, and she kept her head bowed when her father leaned down and asked her if she wanted to stretch her legs in the aisle for a moment. He could see It, as he always did, and in the darkness of the cabin, she was sure she could see the grimace on his lips as he realized his own mistake, how his cumbersome daughter and her constant companion would trip over barely extended feet and into innocent seatmates, and quietly patted her shoulder before he sat back down.

  It was a humiliation.

  It was an abomination.

  And she couldn’t help but feel like she was, too.

  * * *

  Of course her parents chose the package that involved a trip to Makkah prior to the pilgrimage—a route that required making your intention for Umrah, or what her relatives affectionately called the “little hajj.” They landed in Cairo, the designated miqat—the final point before the country of pilgrimage, where you could don both your attire and intentions.

  And after the required shower prior to donning ihram—the uniform, more or less, of the visiting pilgrim—which felt to Hafsah like a quick wash behind the ears in a crowded airport shower room, they all milled into a makeshift masjid room, where she tugged awkwardly at the white prayer gown her mother had carefully chosen for her. She tried yet again to focus on her prayers.

  As she spread her wide skirt to cover her leggings and felt the last droplets of water rise up in steam from the nape of her neck, Hafsah found it hard to believe that this was the first step in accepting the invitation. In order to proceed to Makkah, you had to settle on your resolve and wash away your uncertainties. But she still felt so far from where she was supposed to be. Or assumed she was supposed to be.

  One of her cousins had told her that she would feel it once she was there, or at the very least, when she was clad in her ihram—when the entire group had transformed from mild-mannered acquaintances from the community into white-clad, solemn-faced pilgrims worthy of a double-page photo spread in the latest glossy issue of National Geographic.

  You couldn’t really feel like a pilgrim, either, when you were in an airport full of stuffed-camel stall shops, designer duty-free chocolates, and abandoned iced coffees littering the sides of conveyer belts, melting mournfully in the rising heat. At least the temperature did justice to her expectations. She was grateful for her white gown and winced in sympathy for a girl in the group who wore a gorgeously embroidered black abaya already clinging like snakeskin to her damp arms and hands. She leaned on her mother and picked her way out of the prayer room over the nest of shucked-off shoes.

  Hafsah’s own mother was still prostrating herself, whispering supplications under her breath. Hafsah spread out her legs and watched It crawl over them, languid and winded, trying to find an inch of coolness to nestle into. She was bitterly pleased when It could not. It had made the journey miserable, after all.

  It seemed like the invisible boundary of the miqat had its limitations after all. Hafsah had, rather hopefully, pictured the miqat as a mesh silver net that would glance over her shoulders, briefly languish on them with a comforting, sympathetic touch before dropping over her unwanted companion, ensnaring It while she walked away to her pilgrimage, light and free.

  Of course that wasn’t the way it went. Of course, when Hafsah took to her feet, grasping her mother’s heat-sticky hand, and headed back toward the gate and onto the next plane that would land in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia—home of the hajj, the place of the invitation—It came right after her.

  At least the second plane ride, for all its migraine-inducing roar and lukewarm meals, brought Hafsah some clarity. The idea that there might be some sort of invisible, high-quality force field that would keep It from following her over that axis between high school student and appropriately washed and dressed pilgrim, however appealing, had been disproven. As she leaned on her mother’s shoulder, It prowled between her ankles, restless, seeking some sort of softness on the carpeted floor. Could she leave It here in the airport, languid and lost?

  “Make sure everything is properly tagged,” her mother had mumbled back home, back in that final flurry of packing and sitting on suitcases to will them shut, fidgeting with the oversize pashmina one of her teary-eyed sisters-in-law had slung over her shoulders while blubbering something about being careful and staying together.

  It had been hard for Hafsah to feel the appropriate gravitas in that moment, considering that her aunts were always watery eyed and wailing for any occasion, whether that was due to a visit to a distant relative or to a discussion about a marriage proposal that would likely not be accepted nor discussed ever again.

  “The last thing we need is for you to find that your spare clothes went to Japan instead of Jeddah once we’ve landed.”

  It had curled around Hafsah’s ankles as she dutifully wrapped a band of plastic around her duffel bag and tied it in a knot. She had looked down at It, wondering if the sideways glances around her would become harsher, less polite and distanced, if she wrapped a label around It, too.

  She tried her best not to lay claim to It, as much as others seemed to want her to. Most advice (from her doctor, from her friends, from the teachers who attempted to be approachable and sympathetic at school) went along the lines of “own It so It will have less control over you” or “at least name It so that you can face It.”

  Now, as they deplaned in Jeddah, Hafsah was grateful she had ignored the impulse to tag and collar It. She raised her head, straightened her shoulders, and turned her back on It.

  One way or another, she was going to leave It behind.

  One way or another, she was going to find a way to confirm that this was an invitation without a plus-one.

  * * *

  In the hotel lobby at Makkah, Hafsah resisted the temptation to plop down on the marble staircase like some of the teeny kids in the group had, while they waited for room assignments. The children were both eager and anxious about the escalators going to ground level, directly aiming pilgrims and their purpose toward the extensive grounds of the Haram, the entire complex surrounding the Kaaba and its masjid.

  They had mere moments to enter their room before Fajr prayers would begin. The room was an elegant chamber with wooden separators that slid away to reveal their beds. The large-windowed living room provided an impeccable view of the road, teeming at all hours with people from different countries and walks of life. Each person was new to this ground and walking timidly, looking around in awe with their suitcases heavy in their hands.

  The building just across the road proudly bore the Indonesian flag; an alleyway down, signs suggested a row of restaurants—American head-to-head with savory international offerings, McDonald’s sharing space with a small Turkish café and a Bangladeshi restaurant that lent familiar spice-laden aromas to the humid air. A sense of community would be established between them within a matter of days. The groups that had arrived earlier already seemed to have their footing—striding together, giddy and beaming, toward the lit path into the sacred place of worship.

  You could feel the gravity here, Hafsah realized later, her mind pulled along with the swell of the crowd. She glided off the hotel’s escalator and onto the road herself. She had shed her bags and useless winter coat of the East Coast, and now her ihram dress clung to her legs l
ike a shroud. It was just like the Day of Judgment had always been described to her: a mass of people rising from the earth, from the soft, tense waiting of death, to meet their Maker. Everyone surged together, in similar clothing, with an air of expectation, yearning for fulfillment.

  It was evening, and yet there was an intense flocking of people. As Hafsah drew near to the Kaaba, it grew harder to walk without apologizing, offering smiles where words wouldn’t be understood, because you had crossed paths with someone at the wrong moment or stepped in front of them as they offered up their supplications and lowered their head to the ground.

  Hafsah and her family worked their way through the lowest level of the Haram, picking a bare spot of carpet just in time to join the Fajr prayers. Even from there, Hafsah could hear the low hum of activity in the near distance: pounding feet, raised voices, conversations with one another, with the air, with the atmosphere, with God.

  “Keep your eyes down,” a sister from the group advised, “until the very last minute. When you first see the Kaaba, they say whatever prayer you ask will be answered.”

  Hafsah hoped she did it right, because the prayer was already tumbling around her mouth like a rock in need of polishing. It jittered out of her lips and mixed with the salt of her tears as she finally saw the Kaaba for the first time outside of postcards and framed paintings. It was everything she had ever expected and something else entirely all at once: a humble building of dark brick and pristine black covering, imposing and square in the middle of all the activity, surrounded by a thousand, hundred, million white-clad bodies.

  It was there.

  She was here.

  And so she prayed.

  Please.

  If I am meant to be here, show me that I am.

  If I am meant to be here, show me how I can rid myself of It.

  * * *

  They had completed the rites of Umrah the first night in Makkah—running back and forth between the hills of Safa and Marwa, paved over now for the sake of modern convenience, and doing the required circulations about the Kaaba.

  Afterward, Hafsah and her family had taken a brief sojourn to Madinah, taking advantage of the few days before hajj formally began (and the period after Umrah in which ihram could be withdrawn for other clothing), offering their greetings to the Prophet’s resting place, seeing historical sights from the vantage point of a barely air-conditioned bus and cheap, quickly bought sunglasses from local vendors.

  After that, they moved back near Makkah, into the apartment building provided for the group, from which they were dispatched for the next few days to the camp on the outskirts of the city, at Mina, where every pilgrim must stay to fulfill their journey.

  But for now they had access to the Kaaba again, and Makkah, even if it was a few miles’ walk. Hafsah was still able to make her rounds of tawaaf about the building, and it was there—the second time around, separated from the initial hubbub and cluster of bodies that had distracted her upon her first arrival at the Kaaba—that she noticed.

  It couldn’t keep up with her.

  She had glanced down, realizing her feet felt far too light, considering the usual restraints upon them: Crocs, socks, and It trying Its best to cling about her heels.

  And It hadn’t been there. Of course, a moment later, It had darted up, curled against her shin, acted as though nothing had been wrong—but Hafsah was not imagining the heaviness of Its breathing, the fast movements of Its sides.

  The crowd around the Kaaba itself was too soupy and stubborn to bear during the highest hours of traffic in the day. The third floor of the overarching Haram complex that housed it was the best place to keep eyes on your intention and have your feet soothed by the tiled floor rather than dangerously scorched, especially just as dusk fell and the peace of night spread itself over the relieved earth.

  There was pressure from all sides to keep moving, though, at any place or position in the Haram. You had to keep praying, keep your eyes forward.

  And, increasingly, It couldn’t dog her heels.

  It always had been able to, from crowded cafeteria lines to Eid prayers in the masjid. It had been able to hang on her shoulder as she played basketball with her older cousins and remind her It was there at a family wedding reception, shattering two of her favorite bangles on her arm with a careless swipe.

  But now, It—

  It had almost vanished.

  Heart in her mouth, Hafsah cleared away from the crowd, heading toward the fountains that were always stocked with the sacred Zamzam water for which Hajar, revered wife of the prophet Ibrahim, had begged God for sustenance to provide her infant son Ismail. Hafsah took a paper cup in hand and glanced back at the crowd.

  No sign of It.

  One minute.

  Two minutes more.

  And then It darted out, shaking itself and fixing an accusing eye on her face. It was finding it harder to stay as close to her as It wanted.

  Hope buoyed her heart. Maybe this was the purpose of the invitation. Maybe this was the way It would be left behind once and for all.

  * * *

  A few days later, Hafsah was moving past the early awkwardness of the closer quarters in the camp at Mina—lumpy mattresses on a tent floor, sleeping with her scarf on as she was in ihram, and getting used to the insistent scratch of her dress—and it felt like everything and nothing had progressed all at once.

  They had proceeded from sleepless nights in Mina and the overwhelming vastness of Mount Arafat into following the prophet Ibrahim’s footsteps and casting stones at the temptations of the devil. Each pebble glanced off the gathered pillars, little flint sides clattering and casting downward into the overflowing pile already created by previous groups of pilgrims. A few, shot from the other side of the wall, just narrowly missed her cheeks, but those were already stinging from the heat, and Hafsah would have hardly felt them.

  It wasn’t working.

  Another reach into the stretched, drippy plastic of the ziplock bag, another snaggletooth of a pebble finding its way between her fingers.

  Aim—and there.

  It just kept finding Its way back.

  And she couldn’t hide It, the way she thought she was—so foolish, thinking she had any power over It, instead of the other way around. Not here, in this throng of people, and definitely not back in the camp at Mina. The tent was too small, too acrid.

  There was an incident with the displaced duffel bag, too. She had lost her temper, probably making everyone around her think her mind had snapped on its thread with hardly a frayed fiber to be found, over a simple lumpy bag from a discount store in Queens, until a gentle pair of hands she couldn’t recognize had pressed its familiar shape into her arms. And then there was the aftermath—her mother flushed with embarrassment, forcing a smile, saying that it happened sometimes when Hafsah didn’t eat on time.

  Before the stones and the pillars, when they had observed the sacred day that cemented one’s hajj upon Mount Arafat—the hill upon which everyone would be called for Judgment Day, the day of fervent prayer and continued sermons—It had worsened, pummeling her belly, and a continuous drum of complaint at her temples that forced her to lie down on the tent floor as others prayed and read from their Qur’ans around her, her mother’s hand concernedly stroking her back.

  Afterward, on the train ride to Muzdalifah, where they would spend the night on the ground looking up toward the stars, she tried to kick It under the seats before she disembarked, lose It in the crush of bodies and handbags, almost in tears when It sidled in and out of crossed legs and tangled arms to tag happily behind her as they made it to the pillars where the devil had to be stoned.

  It wasn’t working.

  Hafsah’s fingers grasped empty air. Her allotted pebbles for the day had run out. Her father’s hand was on her shoulder and the ziplock bag containing her reserve pebbles within his grasp.

  “We’re walking back to camp now. We have to come back tomorrow, too.”

  The days were trickling thr
ough her hands just as quickly. There would be no confirmation, no flickering red banner in the sky like her grandmother’s village had once believed would signal the acceptance of a pilgrimage. There would only be the trip back to the States, the barely cooked meals she wouldn’t even be able to stomach, the return home, and the giddy questions about how she felt, if she had changed at all.

  No one would ask what they all really wanted to know:

  Did you pray enough?

  Did you finally bow your head low enough?

  Did It leave you the way It should?

  Her lungs loosened at the seams, little puffs of breath easing out of her lips.

  * * *

  Another round past the green light that indicated a new tawaaf, another glance over her shoulder into the mass of white-clad bodies and devoutly moving mouths. The world cascaded over Hafsah in waves: united breath, flickers of movement, raised hands, and lowering legs. She had made it here, through so many tides, through the long aching walk back to the apartment building in Makkah, through the second round of rites made familiar by Umrah—back and forth between the hills, flanked by elder women whispering prayers and confident young men who speed-walked through their obligations.

  She was one of them and she was not, easing forward past older pilgrims and ducking under the arms of boys with scraggly beards who stumbled over their newly memorized invocations. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she padded onward, fast as she could, through the increasing crush of bodies, jostled and apologetically patted with hands she could hardly feel.

  Was It still trying to mark her, trying to make out the pattern of her scarf, the way it was rising up—she could feel it by the reassuring fingertip of air brushing over her heated neck—to expose an inch of her braid, attempting to differentiate her from the rest of the evening’s faithful?

  It couldn’t. It couldn’t possibly.