by Joshua Corin
“I am a proud Muslim, strong in my faith, and I don’t believe I know everything.”
“Oh, bullshit. You think you know the meaning of life! Sure, it’s a fourteen-hundred-year-old spin on the meaning of life, which makes it newer and fresher than the Christian hypothesis or the Jewish hypothesis, but my new Kia is not inherently better than my neighbor’s four-year-old Mercedes, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you just compare Islam to a cheap car?”
“I did. Guess my brain is going to boil for all eternity, huh?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, mama’s boy, since it sounds like you don’t have a lot in the way of brains to boil anyway!”
Then Malik’s phone rang.
His ringtone was not “Ode to Joy.”
It was the theme music to South Park.
“What a surprise,” said Sara. “It’s your mama.”
She put the phone on speaker.
“Hello? Malik? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Why do you sound so far away?”
“You’re on speakerphone.”
“Why am I on speakerphone?”
Malik took in his situation, gave it a heartbeat of consideration, and decided then and there to lie. He couldn’t hide his injuries from her indefinitely, but why worry the woman on a day when perhaps dozens of people she knew had been killed? No, Malik was going to protect her, and if that made him a mama’s boy, well…
“It’s because he can’t hold the phone in his hands,” Sara said. “It’s because his hands are wrapped in cotton or gauze or whatever they use to wrap hands in. So are his feet. I’m Sara, by the way. Eid Mubarak!”
Chapter 13
Malik’s mother, Sara quickly learned, was named Nafisa, which Sara quickly remarked was also the name of her mother, and in less than a minute the two women had become chums.
And if Malik was half as miserable on the inside as he appeared to be on the outside, thought Sara, so much the better. He was a twit. And a nonbeliever. And a police officer.
Ugh.
“The reason I’m calling,” Nafisa Ali finally said, “is because you were on the TV! I didn’t see you myself, Malik, but I heard. I don’t watch TV on holy days. But I was at the elementary school giving blood—the Red Cross set up a blood bank at the elementary school to help all the victims of the attacks, isn’t that nice?—and Esther LaBrant from across the hall was in line in front of me and she said she saw you on the TV and you were a hero and I said she must be mistaken, but that’s the reason I’m calling. And you’re in the hospital?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Are you feeling okay? Do you need me to bring something?”
“I’m in the hospital because I got injured rescuing people from the mosque, Mama.”
Sara had been watching TV on and off since she’d woken up and she’d seen reports of the two on-duty officers who had, according to witnesses, rushed into the burning building. She’d even seen photographs of the officers posted above chyrons with their names. But she certainly hadn’t made the connection that this officious man, this twit, this mama’s boy standing in her small room was one of those heroes! Even now, hearing confirmation, she experienced a kind of cognitive dissonance. Heroes were men like Rayyan, strapping and brilliant and openhearted and pure. Heroes had strength of character.
And apparently Sara was not alone in her surprise.
“Malik, I am so surprised!” cooed his mother. “Weren’t you scared? You never used to like fire at all. Remember that time we went to that Chinese restaurant—”
“Yes, Mama.”
“—and we ordered a pupu platter—”
“I remember, Mama.”
“—and you were so scared of the fire in the middle that you—”
“I said I remember, Mama.”
“Yes, but Sara doesn’t know this story. Don’t be rude.”
Sara smiled at Malik. “What happened next?”
“Well, Malik was so scared of the fire in the middle of the pupu platter that he hid underneath his seat and he wouldn’t come up until his father set a plate on top of the fire to put it out.”
“I was, like, three years old.”
“What happened when we’re children still happened. Don’t you agree, Sara?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“What a lovely girl you are! Are you single? Malik is single. He has not had a girlfriend in a long time.”
Sara’s smile lost a fraction of its luster. “I am married. My husband was probably at the North Buckhead mosque.”
“Oh, you poor thing…is he all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“I will pray for him. And for you.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Do you have a computer, Mrs. Ali?”
“I do, but I don’t use it on holy days.”
“Well, tomorrow, I highly encourage you to go on YouTube and search for a vlog called YourMuslimFriend. That’s me! I’d love it if you watched a few of my videos and if you like them, please subscribe.”
“I shall! It’s been a pleasure chatting with you! By the grace of Allah, I hope you and your husband are reunited.”
Then Malik said, “Bye, Mama.”
“We’ll talk later.”
End of call.
“Can I have my phone back now?”
“Your mother is lovely,” replied Sara.
“Thank you.”
“How did you turn out to be a twit?”
“Years of practice. Can I have my phone back now?”
“Did you really rescue all those people?”
Malik sighed. “I tried.”
“Wow.”
“Did you really just try to sell your blog to my mother?”
Sara held up a corrective finger. “It’s a vlog, not a blog. Blogs are so 2006. I wonder where my doctor is. I’m supposed to be a high priority patient.”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but there are a lot of high priority patients here.”
“Yes, but I have appendicitis! And a baby!”
Malik sighed again. “Can I please have my phone back?”
“Sure. But first, hero, can you go find my doctor? Her name is Pence. She has this big mane of hair. Kind of a shiny gray. Thanks.”
Malik didn’t move.
Seriously? What was wrong with this man? He was willing to chase into a blaze, but he wasn’t willing to help a pregnant woman suffering from an illness which, untreated, would kill both her and her child? Where were his priorities?
And why wasn’t the call button on her bed’s remote working? Where was her doctor?
“Hello again!” exclaimed her doctor, parting the purple curtain. “Oh, I see we have a visitor. Should I come back later?”
“I was on my way out,” Malik replied, and he held out a bandaged hand for his phone.
But Sara wasn’t ready to relinquish it. Not yet. “Am I ready for surgery, Dr. Pence?”
“Oh, definitely, definitely. The problem isn’t you.” The doctor went ahead and checked both Sara’s and Daniel’s vitals. “Someone should be along shortly to administer a round of doxycycline. It’s an antibiotic.”
“I read that I’m not supposed to take antibiotics in my third trimester.”
“There are conflicting studies, but this dose is not voluntary.”
“The plague?” asked Malik.
Dr. Pence nodded solemnly.
“Wait, wait, wait. Plague?”
“The same people who attacked the mosque,” Malik said, “are claiming to have released a strain of plague in the ER. The whole hospital is under quarantine.”
“Are you serious…?”
“I’m afraid so.” Dr. Pence finished checking the vitals and made
a note on her chart. “This is part of the problem. As I explained, part of your surgery will involve a caesarean section. With the added risk of plague, we are going to post-op the two of you in a clean room. Once the room is ready, we will be wheeling you down to surgery, but until then…”
“Why can’t you wheel me there now, do the surgery, and while you’re doing the surgery they can finish sanitizing the clean room or whatever they have to do?”
“I understand you’re concerned, but there is a specific procedure we’re required to follow. It’s for your own best interest. And Daniel’s. Anyway, that’s what I came here to tell you. How is your pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Good girl.” Dr. Pence turned to go. “It shouldn’t be long.”
Leaving Sara and Malik alone once again.
After a moment’s pause, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well.”
Then she looked away.
After another awkward moment, Malik continued, “If there is anyone else you need to call—”
“I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.”
“Okay.”
“Except Rayyan.”
“Okay.”
“That includes you.”
“I figured,” replied Malik. But he didn’t move. He did, however, hold out his bandaged hand yet again.
Sara glared at it. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“What? If you’re not going to use it, then—”
“I am going to use it,” Sara answered him, realizing then and there exactly what she needed to do. It’s what she always needed to do in times of distress. It’s what always helped. She had over a million people who were out there, waiting to hear from her, waiting to offer their support.
And she had so much to say.
Thousands of them had probably already reached out to her on Twitter and Snapchat and Instagram. They knew she lived in Atlanta. She needed to reassure them that she was all right. She needed to reassure them that the world was all right. And by reassuring them, she would be reassuring herself.
It’s what always happened.
“Okay,” she said to Malik. “First, I need you to be my tripod.”
“You need me to be your what-now?”
“Actually, no, first I need a notepad. I need to organize my thoughts. These things look spontaneous but they never are. Not totally. Some of the structure comes in the editing, but—never mind. It doesn’t matter. Is there a notepad in here? Something to write with?”
“You’re going to blog? Now?”
“I am going to vlog, and first I need a notepad. Oh, don’t look at me like that. This isn’t vanity. You really have no idea. A mosque has been attacked! In the United States! People are freaking out—”
“—and rightfully so—”
“—and they’re desperate and confused and they’re scared and they need me to talk them down.”
“Oh, I see. Your job is to lie to them.”
“It’s not a lie if you believe it to be true.”
Malik rolled his eyes. “And denial is just a river in Egypt.”
“What’s the alternative? To tell my millions of followers to panic? Take to the streets? I have a responsibility.”
“I have a responsibility. I’m a police officer.”
“And you ran into a burning building and saved a whole lot of people. Well, now it’s my turn. So you can either help me or you can take your ball and walk away. Which is it going to be?”
Chapter 14
Seconds before filming her vlog, Sara decided not to film her vlog. Or, rather, she decided that she wouldn’t be on camera.
For one, she looked horrendous. Her face bordered on bloodless save for her eyes, which were red-veined and dilated. Her hair was an unscarfed soggy mop. Some of her viewers wouldn’t be able to get past the visual of her appearance.
Some of her viewers never did.
Also, Malik proved to be a vastly inadequate tripod. She didn’t blame him—not for that, at least. He just couldn’t keep the camera phone steady in his gauze-coiled hands. He did try, even if it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. That was a good question, actually. When she’d handed him his phone to aim at her, why hadn’t he just taken it and left?
The question became, then, this:
If the visual wasn’t going to be of her, who or what would it be of? She could edit together footage from the news and just record her voice over it. She didn’t love editing like that on the compact screen of a phone, but it wasn’t difficult. It would drain the battery like a sieve, but, well, it wasn’t as if she had a plug handy, hello.
But then Sara had her brainstorm.
Here she was, in the emergency room, filled outside her curtain with all of these people whose sole purpose at the moment was to aid the victims of this tragedy. That was the visual. No need to show the footage of the mosque. Everyone had seen that already. What they had not seen—what they needed to see—was humanity at its most natural, humanity at its best.
Again, though, restricted as she was to her bed, she required Malik’s assistance, to which he unsurprisingly replied, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Other than the fact that it’s a crime in the state of Georgia to film people without their written consent?”
“So get their written consent.”
Malik was about to rebut her argument when he was overcome by another coughing fit. To his credit, he covered his mouth with his left hand. His whole body rattled with each violent expulsion from his lungs. By the end of it, his left hand—or rather the bandage on it—was spattered in black.
“You should get that checked,” said Sara.
“It’s from the fire. It’s nothing.”
“Or it could be, I don’t know, the plague.”
Malik shrugged. He didn’t appear concerned.
Twit.
“Okay, look,” Sara said. “You’re right. We can’t film them without their consent and getting their consent would be a headache and a half. But I need to convey a positive message here!”
“How about while you ruminate about all this, I walk away with my phone.”
“So, what, you can go back to your own little room and lie down?”
“If you must know, I’d like to see my partner before he dies!”
That shut Sara up.
And then piqued Sara’s interest.
“Is he conscious?” she asked.
“No. And it doesn’t look like he’s going to be ever again.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Ray. Ray Queen. And the funny thing about it—I don’t even know why I’m saying this—the funny thing is, he didn’t even like us. You know, brown people. But he did his job anyway and now he’s…”
The wheels in Sara’s mind were whirring. This man. Malik’s partner. Probably accessorized from top to bottom with wires and tubes. These were the only things keeping him alive.
This man who had literally given his life without hesitation to save a building full of people whom he did not like.
How about that for a positive message?
This was her visual. This was the image that she would speak over for her video. This image of hope and unity.
Now she just needed to get Malik on board.
But how?
“Is his family here?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“If there’s a quarantine, they probably weren’t able to come in. They won’t be able to be there when he passes.”
“Which is why I need to get going. Nobody should die alone.”
“He doesn’t have to. Listen, I know we don’t see eye to eye on things, but you have the ability to do his family a huge solid right now.”
&nbs
p; “What are you talking about?”
“Record him,” she said. “Just a couple minutes. Just enough that you can show his family.”
“They won’t want to see him like that.”
“You’re wrong. They will. Some of them. They will thank you. Trust me. It will give them a face that they can say goodbye to.”
Malik’s brow furrowed. He was considering it.
Sara ran her fingernails along her bedsheets. Simple nervous tic. Hidden underneath her blanket. Nothing to raise suspicion.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Just come back when you’re through. Either way. Please?”
And then he left.
But he was on board. She was certain of it. She smiled so wide that her lips almost poked her cheeks into orbit. She had her amazing visual. Now she only needed to concoct the best narration she had ever spoken to accompany it.
And without a notepad or a pen.
“Help me out here, little bean,” she muttered to Daniel. His tiny heartbeats were being recorded on the monitor, just underneath her own. Her boy.
Their boy.
Her eyes ran wet and then her cheeks ran wet. Without the distraction of Malik Ali in the room, whichever part of her that was suppressing her grief over Rayyan burst free, and Sara sobbed. She sobbed for the man she knew. She sobbed for the man who would never hold his son. She sobbed for the boy who would never know his father. She sobbed until the full front of her skull ached with pain, as if a part of her brain had been scooped away.
The moment she met Rayyan, she knew he was the love of her life, with a nod and a wink from her heart, and with the very same confidence from the very same place, she knew he was dead.
If they didn’t have that clean room ready soon, her appendix would burst and its poison would kill Daniel and kill her and then they would all be in heaven, and that was the best outcome here, right? It certainly was the only happy ending she could conceive.
She turned on the TV to distract her until the inevitable.
Two talking heads were going at it.
“Just as it would be a mistake to label all one billion–plus followers of a religion as responsible for the actions of fewer than one percent of their number,” said the South Asian woman. Her red chiffon hijab matched her red pantsuit, but those chunky golden earrings were a mistake.