Set to Music

by Negeen Papehn

  “Hold her hand, Niloo. She’ll be able to feel it and know you’re here.”

  Niloo nods and clasps Maman’s tiny fingers, weaving them with her own. She hangs on for dear life, as if sheer will alone could save our mother. I wish it could.

  I have no idea if what I said is true. I don’t know what happens when death is this close, whether she’s still here with us, or if God has her in limbo somewhere, already erasing the pain of leaving her family from her mind. But as the machine beeps its consistent call, I hope she isn’t in any pain.

  Her breaths are coming out ragged now, the time between them longer with each intake. It could be minutes, or days, before the wretched gurgling that’s claimed Maman’s lungs finally ends. It feels like a knife being plunged into my heart over and over again.

  I don’t know what I’m rooting for, to be honest. For my mother to be with us a few months longer, or for her to be released from this prison of a body that has destroyed her? She deserves to finally rest, but do I want to have my heart ripped out in the process?

  The waiting is horrendous, the worst form of torture possible. Each second that passes feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, blindfolded, knowing someone is going to push me, but not sure when they actually will. The knots that have settled permanently in the pit of my stomach won’t ease up, and I feel sick all the time.

  I leave Niloo for a minute and drag my feet to the kitchen where Mike is making a pot of tea.

  “Hey there, khoshgel,” he says, but I feel anything but beautiful.

  I don’t reply, walking over to where he stands and resting my head on his chest, finding solace in the warmth of his body. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. I feel the lump in my throat get bigger, but there are no tears left to cry.

  “I can’t do this.” I became a doctor to heal people, not watch them die. And this is my mother.

  “I’m sorry.” He runs his hand gently across my hair and I close my eyes, taking in the scent of vanilla and serenity. I wish I could hide forever, waking long after this hell is over. There are no more pieces of my heart left to break, all ground to dust.

  “Thanks for being here, Mike. I really appreciate it.” It’s been three months since I left the band, and the tour is officially over. He has some downtime before his next gig and he’s chosen to spend it here, helping hold me together.

  “Anything for you, aziz.” He squeezes me tighter.

  I think of Anthony and wonder where he is and what he’s doing right now.

  It’s as if Mike can read my mind. “Anthony called a few minutes ago. He said he’s tried your phone a couple of times but you haven’t called him back.”

  “My phone,” I murmur. “I don’t even know where it is.” I search the kitchen trying to remember when I saw it last.

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “He is?” Something in my rib cage moves. It’s light and airy in comparison to the heavy dread I’ve been carrying around for what feels like forever.

  “You should call him.”

  I nod and head to my room, riffling through the pile of stuff that’s accumulated over the past few months on my dresser and nightstand. I search through my purse, trying to remember when the last time was that I even saw the damn thing. Suddenly, I hear something vibrate and follow the noise, making my way into the bathroom. There, in the drawer, beside my hairbrush, sits my phone. How did it get in here?

  Three missed calls from Anthony within the span of the past week. A voicemail lights up on the screen. With trembling hands, I play it.

  “Hi, Darya. It’s me, Anthony. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I wanted to check on you to see if you’re okay.” He clears his throat and his voice drops. “I mean as okay as you can be, considering.”

  There’s a pause and I suck in a breath. He’s a cool breeze across my scorched heart.

  “I’m in L.A. and wanted to know if I could come by and see you. I just need to make sure you’re okay. And I’d really like to see your mom. Call me back when you get this.”

  I play the message two more times because I’ve missed the way he sounds, his voice raspy when it’s thick with emotion. My name leaving his lips echoes in my ears. I’d give anything to feel his arms wrapped around mine, making me forget that the most important person in my life is dying in the next room.

  “You shouldn’t be thinking about anything other than Maman,” I say to the woman staring at me in the mirror. I barely recognize myself through the worry that webs my skin.

  I should feel guilty for obsessing over anyone other than Maman right now. But I miss Anthony so much, it hurts. With shaky determination, I call him back, because the opportunity has finally presented itself and I can’t imagine letting it slip through my fingers. He must have been waiting, because he picks up on the first ring.

  “Hey,” he answers, making my heart stop. “How are you?”

  “You know, I’ve seen better days.” My tone is lighter than it has any right to be. But just hearing his voice lifts my spirit in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

  “I’m sorry, Darya. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  I want to tell him that I need him to be here to hold me up, because I feel like I’m falling apart. I want to admit that I’ve made a mistake, that we can find a way to make it work somehow.

  But then I hear Niloo’s sobs through the wall and realize I don’t have any right to say those words, because my life no longer belongs to just me. I have to think of my sister, and right now, I have no idea how she’s going to make it through this. Or how I’m going to, either.

  “No, but thank you.”

  “Can I stop by on Friday?” he asks, softly.

  There’s a part of me that knows the minute I see Anthony, everything I’m holding back will pour out of me without reserve. That I’ll turn into a pile of grief and rubble that will be useless to everyone.

  But it’s Anthony.

  “Sure,” I say, against my better judgment.

  …

  Maman’s skin is pale and chalky, her lips purple from the decreased level of oxygen she’s getting now. Her inhales and exhales sound like she’s drowning, gurgles rather than breathing. Niloo’s head is on the edge of Maman’s bed, where she’s been glued these past few weeks. Tears stream down her face as she waits. Waits for the last breath. Waits for the last shudder. Waits until it’s all over.

  I’m holding Maman’s fingers in mine, rubbing smooth circles across her cold skin. Her palm is wet and clammy, despite the drop in her body temperature. There’s so much that’s unknown about death itself, but my training doesn’t allow me to hang on to false hopes and unwarranted dreams. Maman’s body is shutting down, and no matter how hard I wish it weren’t true, she’ll be gone soon.

  I suddenly feel a strong, large hand rest on my shoulder, and I don’t need to turn around to see who it is. I can sense it in the familiar energy he radiates in my direction. I lean back in to him and rest against the taut muscles of his stomach. His hand slides down my shoulder, laying across my collarbone, keeping me steady. I hadn’t even realized it was Friday, and I can’t help but wonder if somehow Maman orchestrated her D-day to be on the day that Anthony would be here to comfort me.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  “Hey.”

  Anthony stands behind me, strong and silent, for the next hour. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t take a bathroom break, just squeezes my shoulder when I inhale sharply as the time between Maman’s breaths becomes longer and longer. He wraps his arms around me when I cry. The nurse checks the monitors, scribbles on her papers, keeping track of the progress. Or rather, the demise, taking place right before our eyes. The gurgling sounds are louder now, rattling around in her chest, mocking us with the long pauses. The nurse looks at me and the ti
ghtening of her brow tells me it’s all about to come crashing down.

  Suddenly, as if Maman can sense the moment is upon us, her lids flutter and she struggles to open them. Niloo and I jump to her side, leaning down toward the subtle movement of her quavering lips. She’s whispering something, but it’s hard to make out what she’s saying. Anthony, and now Mike, who must have joined us, step back until they’re against the wall, trying to give us as much space as we need to decipher Maman’s last message. But the whirring, beeping machines make it impossible to hear her.

  “Shut off the alerts,” I beg the nurse, who scurries over and turns the now useless machines off. Silence falls over the room. The air is still and stagnant.

  “Maman?” Niloo says, as if she’s unsure whether this is reality or just a dream.

  Our mother mumbles and we duck closer. Her eyelids flutter again, and this time they open. Her eyes are glossed over, yet peaceful, devoid of the pain I’ve seen mottling her vibrancy for so long. She doesn’t have the energy to move, but her gaze tracks back and forth between us.

  “Dokhtarayeh azizam,” she manages against dry, cracked lips. She sucks in her breath, struggling to make a sound around her uncooperative voice box.

  “What is it Maman?” Niloo urges. Despair claims the once gorgeous features of my little sister.

  “We’re here, Maman. You’re not alone.” A small tug pulls at the corner of her lips, and I exhale, happy she can hear me.

  “I love you,” she whispers. “I love you both so much.” A tear slips from the corner of her eye, and Niloo and I both begin to cry. “I will always be with you,” she presses on. “Khoshal basheen,” she mumbles. Be happy.

  She fights to keep her eyes open, but she’s too tired and they close. I reach out and grab Niloo’s hand, interlocking our fingers over Maman’s chest, creating a ring of solidarity between the three of us. Her lungs are barely moving now. But despite the horrendous moment we’re facing, a strange stillness falls over us. I lean down until I’m whispering in her ear.

  “It’s okay, Maman. Boroh. Go and find Bababozorg, he’s waiting for you. We’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of Niloo, I promise.”

  A few moments later, Maman’s features relax, her beauty peeking out from beneath her disease one last time. There’s a small burst of air that finally escapes her lips, her lungs deflating. Niloo and I sit quietly in our sorrow, witnessing our amazing mother escape her body, riddled with its tumors. I watch as the woman who raised me disappears into oblivion, praying there’s actually a heaven so I can see her again someday.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Anthony

  I’ve never seen anyone die. Not until now.

  Niloo quietly sobs into her mother’s outstretched hand, her forehead pressed to her mom’s palm. Mike is drawing slow circles across Niloo’s back as he whispers calmly to her in Farsi. She periodically nods and wipes her tears, but then loses the fight against her feelings and starts crying again.

  Darya is sitting so still I can’t tell if she’s breathing. Her back is straight and she’s staring at a random spot on the wall in front of her. Her mother’s hand is still wrapped in hers and she’s drawing her thumb back and forth across the thin, translucent skin. It’s like she’s frozen somewhere between the moment when things were right and when it all went terribly wrong.

  I drop to my knees in front of her and place my hand on her leg. She looks at me but her eyes are out of focus and dazed. A few beats pass before I see the reality of her situation hit home. The emotions flash across her face quickly, first sadness, then panic, and finally, the rumble of hysteria that escapes her lips in a gut-wrenching cry. It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard.

  “My mom’s gone.” Wild horror takes her features. “Oh my God, what am I going to do?” Her breathing becomes fast and she’s about to hyperventilate. “My mom, Anthony…oh my God.” I wrap my arms around her and she fists her hand in my shirt. She buries her head in my chest and sobs. “No,” she cries. “No, no, no!”

  “Darya, it’s going to be okay.”

  “No it’s not! Nothing is going to be okay, Anthony. My mom is gone.” She gulps air in between her sobs. “I should have been able to stop this. I should have been paying closer attention. Maybe if I’d caught it sooner this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “This isn’t your fault, Darya.”

  “Yes it is,” she insists. “I’m a doctor. It’s my job to see this. I help people all the time, but I couldn’t help the one person who means the most to me.”

  Darya would take responsibility for the world’s problems, but I can’t let her blame herself for her mother’s death. Some things just happen, and that’s no one’s fault.

  “No it isn’t. How could you have known that she had cancer? It’s invisible.”

  “But I should have seen the signs!” She holds onto me as if her life depends on it. I run my hand gently over her hair, trying to sooth her.

  “You’re human. You aren’t God.”

  I feel powerless as I hold her close, trying desperately to keep her from falling apart. I know it’s pointless, that my love alone isn’t strong enough to glue her back together, but I try anyway. I’d do anything to save her, even make a deal with the devil if it meant I could take away her pain.

  “Shhh…It’s going to be okay, Darya.” I hold her tight as her sobs turn into quiet whimpers.

  The minutes roll into an hour, but I don’t move. Eventually, her crying dries up with exhaustion. She lets go of my shirt and leans back in her chair.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. I look down and see she’s referring to the wrinkled, wet mess of a T-shirt she’s left behind.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She wipes the tears from her face then turns toward her mom again. “She looks so peaceful now.”

  “Because she is,” Niloo says. She sniffles and rubs the back of her hand across her nose. Mike hands her a tissue from a box he’s magically made appear out of thin air.

  “Let me pour you some chayee,” he insists. “You’ve been sitting here for over an hour.”

  “I don’t want to leave her.” Niloo’s voice is full of panic.

  “I’ll stay with her,” Darya says. When her sister doesn’t stand, she adds, “Niloo, this isn’t Maman anymore. She’s gone. We’ve said our goodbyes. Let me deal with the rest of it.” She nods at Mike and he carefully pulls Niloo out of her chair and guides her from the room. “I don’t want her to see them come take the body,” Darya explains to me.

  “I understand.” I grab a chair and place it beside hers, knowing there’s no way I’m leaving her to deal with this part alone.

  “They should be here soon. The nurse called them when—” She chokes on her words. I grab her hand in mine.

  “We won’t leave her alone until they come.”

  Darya stares at her mother in silence for a few more minutes while I sit beside her. Then she turns to me and asks, “Do you think she’s still here?”

  “I don’t know if she’s here with us in this room, but I do know that no matter where she is, she’s always going to be watching over you and your sister.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because your mom doesn’t strike me as the type who would do anything less.” To my relief, this gets me a smile.

  “She is stubborn.”

  There’s a shuffle in the hallway. I turn to see two men dressed in scrubs waiting at the door. The panic rises in Darya’s eyes again.

  “Darya, it’s time,” I say softly.

  “No,” she whispers, shaking her head.

  “You have to let go of her now.” I help her out of her seat, and she’s unsteady on her feet.

  “I can’t.” Her gaze meets mine and I can feel her desperation.

  “I’ll help you.”

  As she watches the tw
o unfamiliar men surround the bed and begin rolling up wires and moving machines, I pull her into my arms, murmuring quietly in her ear. They try their best to be respectful, keeping their heads down so Darya can have privacy in her grief. They finally lay a sheet over the body, pausing for Darya to nod before covering her mom’s face.

  “Wait.” Her voice quivers. “Please.” The men exchange glances and move back. Darya dips down and kisses her mother’s forehead one last time. “I love you, Maman.”

  I can see the strength it takes her to step away from the body and give the men a tight nod to continue. She leans in to my chest again, and I can feel her body trembling.

  “Just look at me.” She lifts her chin and stares into my eyes. I run my thumb along the side of her face. “You can do this.” She nods, putting on a brave face as she lets me lead her out of the room.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Anthony

  I head out of the kitchen carrying two platters of hors d’oeuvres balanced on each hand. Everyone stares at me, the men confused and the women entertained. I think it’s partly because some people recognize me and partly because I’m the only man helping in the kitchen. I ignore them and go about my business, not giving a shit about their opinions.

  I don’t care that her culture has deemed me less manly if I roll up my sleeves and work alongside the women. My mother raised me better than that. Plus, it keeps me too busy to obsess over the way Darya’s sitting on the couch, clutching a throw pillow in her lap, and staring quietly at nothing. The only time she doesn’t look like a statue is when people give her their condolences.

  I place down a platter filled with what Darya’s aunt has told me is called dolmeh. They look like two-inch green burritos except instead of tortilla, it’s grape leaves.