by Natasha Deen
The man grumbles, and I get up. I move to the front and ask the driver to let me off. “I’m only a couple of blocks from home. I can walk.”
He nods and opens the door, and I step through. I speed home, the wind cutting at my skin. The police have the area around the accident cordoned off. I nod at the officer as she waves me to the detour. One of the ambulance men moves, giving me a view of the road, the pieces of metal, and the splash of blood. A flash of color mixed in with the debris catches my eye.
Pink.
Neon pink.
I spin, dropping my bags, screaming and pushing the officer out of the way as I race to my grandmother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RESOLUTION IS AN UNFINISHED CANVAS
We form a circle around the bed, Dad, Mom, me, Uncle Raj, Aunty Gul, and Farah. A grim-faced man in a white coat lists off Grandma’s injuries. “I’m sorry,” he finishes, “but with her age and the extent of the injuries, coupled with the brain inactivity—”
“There must be something you can do,” says Dad. “Something that can save her.”
“Mr. Ghani, with her injuries—”
“Yes, yes.” Dad waves him down. “Don’t repeat yourself.”
The doctor’s gaze arcs the room, taking us all in, and then addresses my dad and uncle. “Perhaps if you come outside with me.”
Uncle Raj and Dad follow him out the door.
“This can’t be real.” Farah clutches my hand, her fingers as icy as mine. “She has to come back. She has to be fine.”
“The driver’s fine,” says Aunty Gul. “Distracted by his phone. Bloody fool was texting when he plowed into her. She was in a crosswalk with flashing lights.” Her gaze is on Grandma, but Aunty Gul’s not seeing her. “Amazing, isn’t it? He walks away without a scratch. That man. He destroys everything, and he’s the one who’s fine.”
“Tell me it’ll be okay.” Farah’s grip tightens. “Tell me it will work out.”
I shake my head, trying to stop the tears. The machines are doing everything for Grandma.
Farah cries harder and presses her face into my neck. I hug her tight and will Grandma to rise from the bed.
The door opens a minute later. Dad comes in, Uncle Raj trailing him.
“There’s nothing they can do,” Dad says, his voice flat.
Farah sobs.
I want to cry, too, but I’m holding back. I don’t know why. I don’t know what being strong will accomplish for anyone. Maybe it’s for me. I need to keep my head uncluttered by sorrow, so I can pay attention, take everything in.
“They said she was a goner from the moment the car hit her,” says Uncle Raj. “She’s been unresponsive since.”
I don’t contradict him, but what he’s saying isn’t accurate. There was a moment, a second, when she opened her eyes and saw me, and smiled. And I thought everything would be okay, that she would rally and come back. But maybe her smile meant something else. Maybe I was so caught up in the horror and shock of her blood on the road, I didn’t get the message she was sending. Which is another reason to keep steady. If she sends another message, I want to get it right this time.
Dad clears his throat. “We have a lot to discuss.”
All eyes are on him.
“The doctor wants to know if we’ll donate her organs—”
“No!” Uncle Raj slices the air with his hand. “Absolutely not!”
“We need to talk about this,” Dad says.
“And I say no.”
“As her family—” Dad gestures to us.
“We are her family, Raul, you and me. Not them.”
I squeeze Farah’s hand. “Grandma has a living will. She didn’t want any lifesaving measures, and she wanted to donate her organs.”
“No one’s talking to you, Nira,” says my uncle.
“Yeah,” I say. “I realize no one is talking to me, but that’s not the point.”
The skin on his face tightens.
I turn to Dad and find him watching me. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s made eye contact, and I want to cry and scream and wail that this is what it took for him to remember he has a daughter.
“She had a living will?” he asks.
“And an estate will, too.”
Uncle Raj snorts. “How convenient. Nira’s the one who has the information. Nira’s the one who—”
“She told me,” I say.
“Oh.” His eyes go wide with mockery. “Even more convenient—”
“Shut up, Raja Ghani,” Aunty Gul speaks quietly. “Shut up.”
He jerks back, closes his mouth, and looks at the floor.
“I have copies of them, too,” I tell Dad. “They’re at home in a folder.”
Dad’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. “She gave you the papers?”
I nod.
“She didn’t even give them to me,” he says. “I didn’t know she had sorted through everything.”
I shrug.
“And you’re sure this is what she would have wanted?”
I take my phone out and call up the photo app. “I have digital copies. She was—I always worried about her slipping when we went out.” I have no idea how I’m keeping calm, but I cling to the quiet inside of me. “I have the list of her medications, too, not that it matters.” I hand the phone to Dad.
He’s still staring at me like I’m a new life-form. Dad takes it and reads. “Mom was clear in this. No lifesaving measures, everything donated.” He hands the phone to his brother.
“If you ask me—” he starts.
“No one is asking you anything,” Farah says.
He shoves the phone at me and stalks out of the room.
“I’ll get him later.” Dad takes a painful breath. “It’s time to say good-bye. Gul, you start. We’ll give you privacy.” He ushers the rest of us out the door.
After her, it’s Mom, then Dad. They both come out crying.
“Farah, you go ahead,” he says.
“Come with me.” She holds out her hand to me.
Dad stops us at the door and puts his hand on my shoulder. “No time limit. Stay as long as you need.”
I nod. After I lead Farah to the head of the bed, I retreat to the background and take a seat in the darkened room. She climbs over the railing, gently shifting and moving until Grandma’s arm is around her shoulders, and it looks like the two of them are napping. Farah turns into our grandmother and sobs.
I give her privacy and space until I realize her tears will never stop. She’s unspooling in front of me. I go to her and put my hand on her shoulder. She shudders under my touch and presses herself closer to Grandma.
“I want to go with her. If she has to go, I want to go with her.”
“Far—”
“But I can’t. I never will. She’s going to a place I’ll never be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s good, Nira, good in a way I’m not—I hang out with people I can’t stand because they make me feel good about myself. I lie to my parents. I smoke—I’m not a good person.”
“Don’t say that; it’s not true.”
“It is true!” She can’t take her eyes off Grandma. “Even now, my tears are for myself. I’m selfish. Just like my father.”
“Definitely don’t say that.” I pry her away. “Come on, come out of there before you pull apart her tubes.” I help her off the bed, then push two chairs together so we can sit.
“I’m not crying for her; I’m crying for myself.”
“So am I,” I tell her. “So is everyone on the other side of the room.”
“You lost a person, your grandmother, but I’ve lost my everything.” She reaches for Grandma. “She was the only one who loved me, and now she’s gone. I’m alone. Who will love me now?”
“I love you. Mom and Dad love you. Your mom loves you—as best she knows how.”
“But no one loved me like Grandma.”
“That’s because no one loved li
ke her.” I put my arm around her shoulders. “I love you, and I’ll never love you like she did, but you’ll never love me like she did. But we love each other, and she loved us, and that has to count for something, right?”
“That’s a lot of love.”
“It has to be. We’re her granddaughters, and she was everything that was good and pure in this world.”
She holds me, tight and hard. “Don’t leave me, Nira, please don’t ever leave me.”
“I won’t.”
She hugs me harder. “Promise you won’t.”
“Unnecessary—I think you’ve just melded our bodies together.”
She laughs, then claps her hand over her mouth. “You shouldn’t make me laugh.”
“You think Grandma would care if you smiled?”
Farah looks over. “I keep waiting for her to sit up and demand a cup of tea.”
“Me too.”
She stands slowly. “Your turn now.”
“You can stay if you like.”
Farah shakes her head. “I needed you for this, but you don’t need me.”
I walk with her to the door, and when I open it, I see Uncle Raj on the other side. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll see her after you.”
He’s in there for almost an hour, and when he comes out, he’s pale and shaking. He looks fragile and young. Uncle Raj stumbles down the hallway. Dad goes after him, but Aunty Gul puts her hand on his arm and stops him. Then she follows her husband.
Then it’s my turn. I’m cracked and broken and trying to pretend I’m okay, but now that I’m alone with her, I can’t hold it in. I take her hand, trying to tattoo the feel of her skin into my memory, trying to will her back with my love.
But there’s nothing I can do, and my love isn’t enough to create a miracle. I whisper how much she means to me, laugh over stupid memories, chastise her because I have a bunch of chocolate in my bag and now who will I give it to? I cry and tell her how much I’m going to miss her.
A half hour later, we’re back to standing in a circle around her bed.
“Will the doctor do it?” Mom fights to keep her composure. “Pull the plug?”
Dad nods.
No one moves to call the doctor, and the room is nothing but the beeps and hissing of the machines.
“She can’t go out like this,” says Farah. “Not like this.” She turns to me. “The last thing she should hear in this world is your music, Nira.”
Dad makes a sound, and I brace myself for the onslaught. Rather than a lecture or a dismissal, he says, “She’s right. I’ll go get it.”
“You should stay here,” I say. “I’ll go.”
Dad shakes his head. “You were her granddaughter,” he says, like that answers everything.
“I left my bag by the door,” I say. “Will you bring it?”
He nods and leaves with my mom.
Aunty Gul says, “Maybe we should get some food for everyone,” then she leaves, too.
Uncle Raj scurries after her, then stops at the door. “She was a good mom, the best.” He’s talking to the handle. “I was lucky. Sometimes you don’t know the value—” He sobs and stumbles out the door.
For a long moment, Farah watches the spot he’s vacated. Then she turns from it and hooks her arm through mine, and we sink to the chairs.
“In the Tibetan Book of the Dead, they say it takes forty-nine days for the soul to cross over. During that time, relatives are supposed to read from the book to help the loved one find Bardo,” says Farah. “Do you think it’s appropriation if we do something like that for Grandma?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “but when has she ever needed anyone to give her directions?”
Farah smiles. “I bet she’s already there, making everyone curry.”
“Dressed in that parrot shirt—”
“And that neon coat!”
Our laughter splinters into pain. We’ll never see any of it again. She and I stay quiet until Dad and Mom come back. They must have texted Farah’s parents, because they’re right behind mine.
“I told the doctor,” says Dad, fighting to get out every word. “He’ll be in soon. In the meantime—” He holds out Georgia for me.
And somewhere deep in my pain is the feeling of rightness. Georgia should be here. He should be the one to carry her to the other side, to heaven or Bardo, or whatever place is celebrating her arrival. I dig in my bag for what I need, then turn to the trumpet case.
I take out Georgia. The whole time Dad was gone, I was scared, terrified that when the moment came, the grief would prevent me from playing. My sorrow is still here, thick and heavy, but this act of love for my grandmother gives me strength. Having Georgia in my hands fills me with peace.
I go to Grandma, hold her hand for the last time, and curl her fingers over a piece of chocolate. Then I go to the foot of the bed, take a breath, and blow. “Over the Rainbow” melds with “What’ll I Do?,” and it comes together in the song—in my final wish for her—“Fly Me to the Moon.” The notes soar and cascade, and I send her my love and thoughts with every breath. Fly to the moon, dance among the stars, I love you, and I love you, and I love you. The last note of the song is what she hears as the doctors disengage the machines.
I let Georgia fall to my side. My grandmother is among the planets and stars now. She is a golden comet, a galaxy of one. I’m left on this earth, on a world that’s darker and sadder for her passing, and I don’t know what to do without her beside me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LOVE IS THE SWEETEST TEA
It feels wrong to leave her bedside, but when Farah says, “She’d hate us sitting here, staring at her, and crying,” I realize she’s right.
“She’d smack us all for moping,” I say.
Dad nods. “Let’s go.”
We file out of the room. Farah and I are sandwiched with our mothers on one end and our fathers on the other. As I step out, I see Noah, Mac, and Emily standing by the chairs. I must have texted them—or maybe it was Farah. I can’t remember, but I’m not surprised grief has stolen my memory. But, I promise myself, it will be the last memory of my grandmother that it takes. The rest of them I’ll hold until the day I die.
“I’m so sorry.” Emily starts crying. “She was always so sweet to me whenever I came over.” Turning to Mac, she says, “You would have loved her. She would have loved you—and stuffed you with tea and food.”
Mac smiles. “I met her. That’s exactly what she did. Fed me. I tried to tell her I wasn’t hungry, but it didn’t matter.”
Noah doesn’t say anything. He just steps forward and opens his arms. His action is all the conversation I need. I go to him and sink into the warmth of his solid presence. Someone hugs me from behind—Farah, maybe. It doesn’t matter, because soon I feel the crush of the other bodies. Even Dad and Uncle Raj are part of it—I can tell by their cologne. We’re a giant pile of arms and legs and love.
It hurts so bad, the loss of my grandmother, but weirdly, there’s a feeling of comfort threading its way through the pain. It’s because of my friends and family. Check that, there are no friends here. Just family.
We’re a constellation of hurt and tears, a universe of heartbreak and memories. Shining lights and black holes, comets and shooting stars. Even though Grandma isn’t here in person, I feel like she can sense us, and if we quiet our grief, we’ll sense her back.
I want to stay buried in the love that surrounds me, to cover myself with the collective strength, and stay immobile until my broken heart mends.
But I hear Mom say, “We should go. We’re blocking the hallway.” Then we’re pulling apart, formed individuals once more, though invisible tendrils connect us still.
“Is it okay for us to come over?” Emily asks. “I know we’re not family, but I have these memories of her—”
“Shush,” says Mom. “Of course you’re family.”
“Can we bring you some food?” asks Noah.
Mom shakes her head. “There are leftov
ers. We can heat something up.”
“We’ll bring food,” says Noah. “You shouldn’t have to do anything tonight.” Mom opens her mouth to argue, but Noah says, “I remember what it was like when my mom died. Making coffee felt like a big deal.”
Her mouth closes. She nods as she takes his hand and squeezes it.
“I have my car,” he says to me and Farah. “Do you want to come with us, or…?”
I look at my parents, but before I have a chance to speak, Dad says, “Go with them. I have to talk to Raj.”
My dad’s easy words signal a change between us. For a second—a split second—I’m left immobile as my world shifts. Then Dad smiles and the ground settles underneath my feet.
We leave the hospital and step into the quiet night. I slide into the passenger seat of Noah’s car, while the girls take the back. There’s no conversation along the ride; no one suggests turning on the radio. It’s just the five of us, silent. Noah holds my hand, and I’m sure in the back seat, Emily and Mac are holding Farah’s. Their loving touch and the quiet is all the music that we need.
Noah drops Farah and me at the house, then the rest of them go for takeout. Farah and I are a two-headed organism that shuffles to the kitchen. Mom and Aunty Gul are already there, rummaging through the fridge, looking for the mithai Grandma had made.
I head to Grandma’s room to get her estate and will.
“Nira.” Dad stops me.
“Yes?”
He doesn’t say anything; he just pulls me in his arms and hugs me tight. I hug him back. “You did good by her. You always did right by her.”
“Thanks.” I pull away. “I should get the stuff from her room.”
He takes my hand. “I see it now.”
“See what?”
He lets go of me. “You’re exactly like her.” He smiles, starts crying, and turns away.
Memory takes me into her room because my vision is a blurred mess. After I step inside, I don’t do anything but lean against the closed door. I keep my eyes shut and feel the echoes of her presence. Grief takes me to her bed, where I trace the faint indentation from her head on the pillow.