Love from a to Z

by S. K. Ali

  “Yeah, but . . . Okay, why don’t you get ready for your soak and we’ll talk?” She went to her walk-in closet and bent to open a bottom drawer. A kimono-like bathrobe, silky and subdued in mint green and gray, emerged from it. “You can use this.”

  “Thanks.” I took it with me to the bathroom, undressed, and put it on while the water ran. I selected a random bath bomb and threw it in and watched it erupt. The door was ajar, so I called out, “Auntie Nandy, what were you talking to Mom about? Her flight comes in at nine, right?”

  Auntie Nandy showed up at the door. “No, her plans changed.”

  I stopped watching the fizzing action in the water and faced her. “What? Why?”

  “Your mom is meeting your dad in Pakistan. She just landed in Doha, but then is flying on to Islamabad in a few hours. But we’ll go to the airport, because she wants to see you. Talk to you.”

  “Why is she going there too? What happened?”

  “Darling, why don’t you sit down on the bed?” She came into the bathroom and turned the water off. “You can do your soak later.”

  I obeyed her and went toward the bed.

  ODDITY: WORTHLESS LIVES

  With her arm around me, she told me everything Mom had told her. That they’d found out exactly how Daadi had died in October.

  The day when she’d gone to enjoy a wedding in the mountains the way she had when she was a young child—which meant traveling out of her familiar city.

  A drone strike. A missed target. Collateral damage.

  A wedding caravan of cars and buses dispersed, shredded, gaping holes, gaping wounds, missing body parts, missing bodies.

  Daadi had wanted to sit in one of the cars, as the bus with the family members—the one vehicle that had survived the attack—scared her with its speed and rickety way of moving.

  The report Dad went to learn about had all the details.

  My hands went to my face, and I cried without stopping.

  Auntie Nandy put both arms around me and kept whispering that I was a beautiful soul and that my grandmother had gone on to the next life and that she was at peace, and so were Dad and Mom now that they knew what had happened to Daadi, but I kept crying.

  Because it came back to me again, like it had in the fall, that I’d never see her face or feel her hands again.

  Because it hurt that, with the way things were in the world, my grandmother’s life and her hands, her love, didn’t count as much.

  It hurt that some lives were worth less.

  • • •

  After talking to Sadia and Mansoor on Skype, ten minutes where we each took turns consoling one another while resharing memories, Auntie Nandy drove me to the airport.

  Mom had a short layover, so we were going to see her in the transit area, across a barrier.

  On the first sight of her, of her smallness, her white trim hijab, the worry in her eyes, I began to sob. She reached out to me, and I slumped into her arms.

  The rhythmic way she stroked the back of my head for a long while was the balm I didn’t know I needed. I laid a kiss on her cheek before I broke away to let Auntie Nandy hug her.

  On releasing her sister, Mom turned to me. “Sweetie, I’ll be back. I’m going for a few days, and then I planned my trip so that I have a couple of days here before we go back home together.”

  “Mom, how did they know it was really Daadi? That she died that way?”

  “There are records that an organization that tracks civilian drone deaths collects. It just took a long while to get all the information.” Mom reached out to me again, putting her hands on my arms to hold me steady, to look into my eyes. “She’s at peace. Remember to make duas for her, darling.”

  I nodded, but I couldn’t get Daadi, a certain look of hers, out of my mind. The one Mansoor and Sadia and I had talked about. That encouraging face she’d do when she wanted you to try a food she’d made that you weren’t sure about, how full of love that face was.

  And her hands again. This time I saw one of them holding out a slice of mango, during the times she’d feed me by hand, even after I’d grown up.

  Mom’s light brown eyes explored my face with care. “You look tired. Have you been sleeping?”

  I nodded again and put an arm through Auntie Nandy’s arm. “Yeah, I have. Auntie Nandy’s been taking good care of me.”

  “And will continue to. Don’t worry, Leesh. Go take care of what needs to be done. Zayneb is going to rest a bit, maybe swim a bit?” Auntie Nandy raised her eyebrows to me and, when I said yes, went on. “And see more of Doha.”

  “And pray for Daadi,” I added, reaching for Mom again. She wrapped her arms around me. “Is Dad okay?”

  “Well, he’s obviously shaken. I’m going to help him settle things, finish the process of closing up Daadi’s house there.” Mom spoke softly. “We’re also going to fill out all the papers and make sure her death has been recorded as a victim of war, make sure it’s on the record.”

  “It doesn’t seem like anyone will care,” I said.

  Mom glanced at Auntie Nandy before putting a hand in her purse. “I’ve got some mail for you.”

  She held out some envelopes. I noticed a UChicago label on one of them.

  • • •

  I didn’t get in to UChicago.

  But today, it didn’t matter.

  • • •

  In October I’d been in English class discussing Hamlet when I was called down to the office, where Mom told me to get my things, that I was going home, that something had happened to Daadi.

  Now I knew what that something was.

  I wanted to know everything that had happened to my grandmother, so when I got back from the airport, I went online and spent all night researching.

  I found facts I’d never been told.

  Facts that I’d never learned as we sat discussing Hamlet.

  Millions of victims of our recent wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, and Yemen.

  Drone strikes that have killed countless innocent civilians—people picking crops in the field, lining up to buy bread, going to school.

  Going to weddings.

  With each new fact learned, I felt Daadi’s hand as she sat stroking my hair while I did my homework in front of the Pakistani dramas she’d watch. I saw her hands knitting the cozy items she’d make me each fall, and Binky long before that. I saw her hands holding my face in greeting when I came in after school, the love in them melting away whatever pains school had thrown at me, and then those same hands kneading and breaking dough to make me a fresh, flaky roti, my favorite after-school snack.

  I ached for those hands and couldn’t stop the tears that dripped onto my laptop.

  ADAM

  MONDAY, MARCH 18

  ODDITY: GETTING THE TRUTH OUT

  CONNOR CAME OVER ON MONDAY afternoon, but not on his own. Jacob, Madison, Isaac, Emma P., and Emma Z. turned up too, with a box of ice cream sandwiches. We ended up sitting outside on the patio so that Hanna could feel like she was hanging with us, skipping rope, riding her bike along the boardwalk, or just doing stuff on the lawn.

  Once he knew I’d told Dad, and it was okay for him to tell the others, Connor had done a message blast about my diagnosis, so now I fielded what felt like a hundred questions. Questions politely asked and thoughtfully spaced apart between bites of quickly melting ice cream, but still kind of wearying.

  Emma Z. brought up returning to university, and I didn’t say anything.

  Which I thought would get everyone more inquisitive, but thankfully they started giving their own stories of going back to school after the break.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Emma P. said, scrunching her ice cream wrapper into a ball.

  The others chimed in, offering their own dates of departure, many of them leaving Doha tomorrow as well. In a few days, it would be just me left here. With Hanna and Dad, yay.

  But alone with my MS.

  I was in this weird space of wanting not to be alone and wanting
not to be crowded, either.

  I just wanted the right mix of being with someone I connected to, who cared, but also let me be.

  I spun my trash, folded small, between my fingers. Just origami folding that plain white wrapper into a perfect tiny square while listening to everyone talk about my illness had been therapeutic.

  I twirled it to not think of the future. Of loneliness.

  When things fell silent, but not awkward silent, Emma P. looked at Connor, then at me, and then back at Connor, before speaking. “That’s why we came by today, Adam. We couldn’t leave without saying good-bye. Without seeing you.”

  “I’ll be here when you guys come back.” I waved at Hanna as she rode by, trying not to show my discomfort at edging close to the topic of Me, Alone. “And hopefully everyone will come back to Doha? For the summer?”

  “Let’s take a pic,” Connor said, standing up, holding a plastic bag out to collect everyone’s trash. “Hey, can your sis take our picture?”

  I nodded, thankful for the change in conversation. “Yeah, Hanna’s pretty good at clicking. Lots of practice.”

  “Hanna!” Connor advanced to the stairs leading to the boardwalk, to get her attention.

  Madison and Jacob got up and walked to one of the big white rocks on the lawn, with Isaac following, taking photos of them with his phone. I’d heard Madison and Jacob had an account called Long-Distance Love where they posted their miss-you picture postcards to each other.

  Emma Z. unfolded herself from the canvas chair she’d been curled in, stretched, and wandered away.

  Seeing what had just happened, I scratched my elbow.

  They’d left Emma P. and me with empty patio furniture.

  “Adam, I hope you know that finding out about your MS . . . how much it affected all of us,” she began. “I cried so much when I heard last night. But Connor told us not to badger you with messages.”

  I continued scratching, nodding to acknowledge her thoughtfulness.

  “The thing is, I want to be there for you. If you need anything, just let me know, okay?” She pulled her legs up and crossed them on the ottoman she was sitting on. “I mean, I’ll be far away, but in terms of emotional support, you know?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You were always there for me, and I’ll never forget that. I still have the Airbender back brace.” She smiled and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but I took it with me to school in Chicago. It’s in my dorm right now.”

  I laughed. “Well, it took me two weeks to finish. I hope it’s framed somewhere.”

  She laughed too. Then blurted, “Adam, you know I’d keep whatever you made me, right?”

  I went back to scratching my elbow. This situation was painful. But she was looking at me for a response. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know how to say this, but it’s been a long time coming, and now I feel like I can’t go back without saying it. That you’re important to me.”

  “You guys are important to me, too.”

  “Just to rest my mind, is there someone else for you?” She spoke softly and slowly, like she was trying to make it less painful for me, and for her. For us, I guess.

  I was about to quickly blurt, No, no there isn’t anyone, but I don’t want anyone now, just to stop this thing before it started, but then . . . it would keep something open.

  In Emma P.’s eyes it would mean that there could be a chance.

  But while Emma P. was someone kind and fun, she wasn’t the someone for me. She wasn’t the someone I chose.

  She was part of the friend family I’d been dealt.

  I hesitated, trying to select my words carefully.

  And then Zayneb, sitting at the back of the plane, a light above her head, came to me.

  Wait. Yeah, there had been someone else starting to put roots in my heart. And even though it lasted only until yesterday afternoon, after which the roots froze cold, their remnants were still there.

  I could call them to mind.

  Because this was an emergency situation.

  “This is hard to say, Emma, but yeah, there is someone.” I stopped scratching. “I met her right before getting back to Doha.”

  “Oh,” she said, her voice even softer.

  And then there was nothing, no more words from her, or questions, nobody else around to break the silence. No elbow scratching from me either.

  Just her face clouding fast in disappointment and me trying not to see it.

  Then, after a long, long pause, she uncrossed her legs, dropped them, and leaned forward so she was at the edge of the ottoman, her hands clutching the cushion on either side of her, as though she were going to launch herself out of it. “Okay, I guess. I guess I should be happy to know the truth.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Because it wasn’t the truth.

  • • •

  As an act of solidarity with me and my diagnosis, everyone in the group, including Emma D., who’d dropped by while we were gathering for the photo, after visiting a friend, and even Tsetso, who was already back at university in France, posted the group picture of us on all our socials, with no message accompanying it.

  We posted it right then and there, at the exact same time, everyone back at our spots on the patio, Connor passing around bags of chips he’d rummaged from the kitchen.

  It was one of those pictures that was frame worthy, that would be talked about when we grew up, that already felt nostalgic.

  I looked at it and whispered a prayer of gratitude.

  Gratitude for the fact that I did have this special family of friends.

  In the photo, we were settled on the sunshine-filled lawn, looking up, sitting in a semicircle around one of the big white rocks. Hanna had stood on top of it to take our picture with her iPad, after a vigorous debate with Connor as to whose device had the better camera.

  I’m in the middle, Jacob on one side of me, with Madison and Isaac beside him, Connor on the other side of me, and then Emma Z., Emma D., and Emma P. We were all smiling up into the camera. But Emma P. and me?

  Our smiles were forced.

  “Your sister takes great pictures, Adam,” Emma D. said, motioning Hanna over. “This is awesome, Hanna. Thanks.”

  “See Adam? I am a great photographer!” Hanna crossed her arms at me before flouncing over to sit on the arm of my chair.

  “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

  “You deleted the pictures I sent you from the museum yesterday. The ones with Zayneb.”

  I stared at her.

  Hanna laughed. “I saw you deleting them last night! From my bedroom window!”

  She scooted away, back to her bike.

  Oh God. She’s such a sneak. Her bedroom window faces the patio. Where I’d been sitting last night after dinner, while Dad read to Hanna in her room.

  She must have used that telescope she keeps at her window.

  Everyone looked at me, some more pointedly than others.

  I avoided Emma P.’s face.

  “I was with Zayneb before I came here.” Emma D. picked up a chip from the pile in her palm. “She found out more information on how her grandmother passed away.”

  Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon. The prayer came immediately to me. To God we belong and to God we return.

  “That sucks,” Connor said, passing the bag of chips my way, along with an inquisitive glance.

  He was checking my reaction on hearing about Zayneb. So I gave him a sincere one. “I hope Zayneb’s okay.”

  “She is. But it was really terrible. Her grandmother died months back in Pakistan, and they only found out now that it was in—get this—a drone strike. Her family’d never known.” Emma D. shook her head and rubbed her palms together to get rid of chip crumbs. “She’s so down. And yeah, angry. Like anyone would be.”

  Emma P. spoke. “That’s awful. We should do something for her.”

  “Oh, yeah, maybe we can stop by her place? She was just in bed when I left her.
” Emma D. perked up. “We can take some food or something? Ms. Raymond would probably like that, for us to see her.”

  “Who’s in?” Emma P. looked around.

  Madison, Jacob, Isaac, and Connor bowed out, having other things to do. Emma Z. said, “Of course!”

  Emma P. turned to me, and I tried not to see too much in her gaze, but it was there, that slight Is this the girl you met who you told me about? That aha! curiosity.

  “I can’t,” I said. “Dad promised Hanna some stuff later this afternoon, after which we’re going to sit her down to tell her about my MS.”

  She nodded, satisfied.

  I couldn’t help adding something. “But can you tell Zayneb I’ll do a dua for her grandmother today, with my dad? A prayer?”

  She nodded again.

  • • •

  When everyone left, I went down to the workroom, bringing along one of the folding chairs from the patio. I set it in the middle of the empty, half-painted room and sat on it to gaze around, to envision everything again.

  My ideas were half-formed, but I knew what I wanted. I wanted a reminder of the good things in life, the marvels of the world, for these to flood whoever walked into the room. Filled with lights and shapes and sudden little details that were hidden until they weren’t, until you came upon them at the right time.

  I dipped my head back and stared at the ceiling.

  The sky atop was a brilliant blue, like Hanna’s azurite . . . like Zayneb’s scarf.

  I stood and folded the chair to take it out of the room.

  Maybe I’d finish painting everything.

  But the ladder, leaning in a corner, only reminded me of Tuesday, and then the thoughts came tumbling back.

  What if I get another attack? When I’m on my own?

  Dad made it a point to check on me every few hours, and I was okay with that, but what about when he went back to work?

  We had an appointment with a neurologist this week, but that didn’t mean it would be smooth sailing after.

  It didn’t mean I could get my life sorted out again.

  But I could sort the pieces I’d started working on for the room. The thin blades of wood, the flattened bottle caps I’d scraped the paint off of and then drilled with patterned holes to let light through, that I was going to use in homage to the geometry found in nature—I could sort these little bits of art I’d collected.